


Revenge: A Dish Best Served Cold (Because They're Dead)

by Clueingforlooks221B



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Jealous!BH, M/M, Paperhat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clueingforlooks221B/pseuds/Clueingforlooks221B
Summary: A fellow villain is terrorizing Flug, and Black Hat wants revenge. He isn't jealous, he just doesn't want someone else to scare Flug more than he does.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more of a set up for the next four. This took forever to post and I haven't really edited since I'm tired so sorry for any errors haha. If there are any let me know and I'll fix them! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

She never looks the same, but he can always tells it is her.

The first indication is the automatic shift in the atmosphere the moment her foot steps into a room.

It’s the air around the way she carries herself.

Tension evades off her, though not a bone in her body is stiff. Her spine is always drawn up, sure, but always in a way that asserts dominance rather than appearing to be prude and uptight.

She poisons the environment around her with something. Something that makes others spines snap up, and stains the nitrogen with thickness that clogs people’s throats up. The wad of pure pressure creates a web all the way down their esophagus’, leaving just the thinnest of cracks for pathetic words and breaths to flounder in and out of.

Goosebumps erupt across people’s skins in the presence of her, and neck and arm hairs stand at attention for her.

The longer she's around, the worse of that effect she has on people.

It’s a horrible drug that has the complete opposite effect a person wants. One that a person doesn't become addicted too, but it stays in their system regardless to if they want it there or not. The more her presence is in a person, the heavier that person’s organs become and the tighter their bones get.

Only once she is gone can people finally breathe again. Their spines hesitantly slink, crumbling to a mass of wound-up nerves into their chests, from the force of the toxic air that was trapped inside them.

 

5.0.5 doesn't like her, and that says a lot because he likes everyone. He gives Black Hat hugs!

  
Even Demencia is intimidated by her. 

She has a way of making a person feel automatically awful about themselves, with the blank unimpressed stares she casts upon others. Her long obsidian lashes unblinking, and bitter mocha eyes unmoving. She sucks the self-confidence from everyone until self-consciousness is all that remains.

Black Hat is the only person Flug has ever seen who is able to interact with her without either gawking at her beauty; or outright flinching and scrambling for a string of coherent words into giving her what she wants so she can leave and not inflict any harm.

  
Her outfits differ vastly, but have the same idea. Fabric covering the necessary parts to be just a touch off of too revealing, yet still managing to give almost everything away.

Although… this is coming from a man who wears a bag and only shows the skin of his neck.

And she has poked fun at him about this.

But what hasn't she commented on about the man?

For a while she addressed him— on the letters she leaves him and the instruction cards she fills out— as “elderly nun”. Thankfully, he's the only one who sees the cards. 

But, honesty, the nickname would be the last thing he would be worried about others seeing. 

  
He avoids saying her name whenever possible.

A large, more paranoid, part of him feels like she knows when he speaks of her name aloud. That she’ll come bursting through the grey steal lab door, dark eyes on him, and a thick brow arched. Not having to even speak the inquiry of why she's been called to get an automatic scramble out of the doctor for an answer.

  
He knows it’s foolish… she would never be in their house.

However, what’s even more insane sounding is that he maneuvers around saying her name in his mind, and his shoulders leap when he does.

Even when saying “she” he doesn't feel safe, because in his head he knows just who he is talking about. He knows in the crevices of his brain who he’s referring to, so her name technically comes out, just more blurred and hushed.

It’s all because she knows stuff about people. It’s part of what she’s famous for. And she seems to know everything about Flug, even stuff he’s never admitted aloud… much less to himself.

Saying “she”, regardless to doing so verbally or not, still sends frantic shivers through his veins that rattles his heart; but this is only a small fraction of what he feels when he does say her name.

Anyone else saying her name, for the matter, does the trick as well.

“Dr. Flug.” Black Hat is several inches behind him.

Flug surges in the air, limbs balking out.

After getting over the initial surprise of his boss appearing out of no where, he groans inwardly and clenches his teeth. He hates it when Black Hat does that. His heart continues to ram into his chest, his senses now on high alert. How long has he been here?

He circles around Flug, stopping near him besides the white table. “I need this order,” he drops the instruction card clients fill out for custom orders down on the table. It flutters in front of Flug. “done by tomorrow, nine A.M. It’s going out to Elvira.” He grins, showing off his sea foam green glistening teeth. “Our best customer.” His eye is wide, pupil large as his brows tilt down into a sharp v.

Elvira.

The doctor grips the table in front of him, staring down blankly at the pearl surface as that name rings in his ears in Black Hat’s gravelly voice. His shoulders hop along with his heart, and he wrestles with his fingers. He focuses on clenching the table so they won’t shudder too harshly.

He’s extremely thankful it’s not a common name. Because even hearing the beginning of a word forming with “Elv” sends him into having a mini heart attack.

His faded vision sharpens on the instruction card in front of him. Her cursive is the first thing to strike him; and that stupid heart she always does in front of her name scrawled across the dotted line mocks him.

  
The irony is rich. The card isn't given with love, and she doesn't have a heart. What her purely evil creations do, well, it’s the complete opposite of love.

All her custom orders are the same, extremely dark. Ideas cramped upon the cards that Flug had never even fathomed.

Black Hat calls them genius. He cackles wildly at the concepts, loving to sit and read them the moment he receives one. As if they’re the next issue of a favorite comic of his. He either receives the cards through the mail, with a quivering 5.0.5 giving them to him, or from a shivering minion of her own that brings them personally to their house.

“Ah yes, and this envelope was addressed to you,” he drops the pale pink envelope on top of the instruction card, sadly covering everything but the messy stupid heart. “blueprints like usual, I am assuming.” he shrugs, before slipping up the instruction card once more with the pads of his pointer and middle finger. He twists it in his fingers to have a steady grip on it, shoving it in front of Flug’s face. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Flug squints to read the description of what she wants, but the card is gone before he can even pick up a stray word, let alone a single letter.

“A device to find people’s deepest psychological issues and bring them to life! Absolutely brilliant; she always beats me to thinking about these things. This will make me so much on the market.”

Flug nods blankly, flickering his pupils away from the heart to stare down at his knuckles. His marigold gloves lie on the other side of the table since he has yet to start any experiments for the day.

Between two fingers once more, Black Hat tosses the card back down on the table. In the swoop of his trench coat, the ebony coattails soaring up in a cloud of ebony smoke, Black Hat has vanished.

Flug exhales, resting one hand on the left side of his bag where his cheek is. The other lazily fishes for the card, dragging it towards him.

 

At first it had surprised him that Black Hat likes the woman.

But the more he thought about the matter, the more it all made sense.

  
The quick explanation as to why Black Hat tolerates her so well is because they’re after two different things, so she doesn't pose a threat towards him. In fact, she benefits him, as he does her.

Black Hat’s a business man, an evil business man he likes to stress, and she’s… well, a villain. A super villain.

  
She doesn't care about fame because she knows that she already has it. She didn't have to work for it by bursting out of the shadows and slamming her name down people’s throats. She’s so evil that her unadvertised actions spread her name for her.

Whispers and rumors, people, all did the work for her.

Her not showing off makes her all the more intimidating. It makes people, or at least Flug, wonder what her true intentions are.

Typical villains want fame; they want attention. They broadcast, and make their fights public.

Yet she lurks outside of the public, and commits crimes that aren’t even noticed by authorities right away. Most of the time doing unspeakable actions that have to be censored for the public.

She goes farther than any other villain Flug has ever known, beyond Black Hat of course. She shows no mercy, and doesn’t think twice about killing. In fact, she loves it. Just like someone else Flug knows…

And if fame isn't what she’s after, then one of the only other logical option is that she does it all for fun.

Because she certainly doesn't care about money like Black Hat does; and this is proven with all the orders she places with them.

She’s insanely clever.

She doesn't let pride consume her like most, and truthfully gives the people who give her what she wants something back. One could almost call her selfless in that way, for a villain, at least.

Flug knows there has to be something they’re missing.

She gives her ideas to Black Hat for free, and doesn't demand credit to be given to her. She doesn't care that he sells her ideas on the market.

Yet, she isn't the one making the inventions. She just creates the idea, so she really doesn't have that power over Black Hat…

No one has power over Black Hat.

But even then, she arrays everything in such a way that for a moment anyone could think she does.

He exhales, and once he inhales the smell hits him. The faint lingering of peppermint on the instruction card. Another one of the only things constant about her. 

Now Flug gags every time he brushes his teeth, and can no longer enjoy a cup of mint ice cream. Or anything with mint in it.

He inhales again through his nose, and the sweet but stinging mint snuggles in his nostrils.

Flug glances over at the pale rose envelope where he knows the scent is stronger. The more envelopes he’s received, the more he's started to realize things. One being that she sprays her perfume directly on both the envelope and on all the contents inside of it.

It yanks at his attention span, taking over his senses.

He shouldn't open it. It’s better not to.

Every time he gets one, after he's assessed everything inside of it, he promises himself it’s the last one he will ever open.

Yet each time he receives them, there’s something about them that he can’t ignore. He has to know what she knows about him now. What dirt she’s pulled up on him.

He knows he’s going to regret it, but… he would regret it if he didn't open it either.

Sighing, he slowly takes his head off his hand and takes a step towards the side of the table where the envelope lies.

The scent intensifies, already nauseating him and causing the starts of pain to build at the sides of his temples.

With shaking fingers he pries the envelope open, ripping it once and sliding his thumb across the top of the envelope. Peppermint explodes, burning up his nostrils. The doctor gags, leaning back as far as he can from the letter to gulp in air. But he can still smell it.

  
A small photo flutters out of the envelope first, landing face down on the corner of her instruction card.

A folded up lined piece of paper lingers inside the envelope, the corner of it peeking out.

Flug goes for the note first, figuring it will be the easiest one to face out of the two.

He unfolds it, wrestling with the paper several times to get it to unfold. The creases are rough and trap the paper.

His wobbling ensues with the longer it takes to get the paper to just unfold. He shakes the paper, refolding it to soften the creases.

He growls, crouching over the paper to focus more on it. His arms quiver, but more out of the strained heat throbbing inside him now.

He doesn't even want to read this!

 _Rrrriiiipppppp_.

Flug snaps back, jolting. His heart slams into the front of his chest, causing his ribs to vibrate.

His fingers are frozen on the paper, his thumb and pointer finger in between a small tear. It's not deep, but it stretches halfway across the half folded sheet of paper.

The doctor mouth hangs open, before he exhales and forces it shut. His lungs plunge to a heap, the mint now scorching his blood and making his eyes water from the bitterness of the smell.

His perspiration sticks to the sides of the folded paper. He rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans; the rough material scratching along the exposed palms of his hands, offering a bit of relief.

It’s just a note.

He unfolds the rest of the paper and crap his palms are still covered in sweat.

The sable cursive is upside down.

The vowels dance in front of him, edges of the paper crinkling as Flug gradually rotates the sheet.

Flug lowers the paper for a moment, both taking a moment to get adjusted to the overwhelming smell, and to rethink everything over one last time. He fans the paper, but regrets it when he realizes it only serves to make the peppermint spread in the room. He scrunches his nose, exhaling roughly and reaching under his bag to pinching the tip of his nose.

Should he read this? He knows it would be so much easier, and better for his health, to just burn it now.

But before he can answer himself, his actions are making his choices for him.

With his palms he straightens the crinkled paper out on the pearl table. He rests his elbows on both sides of the paper, already frowning so deeply he can feel his bottom lip digging into his top one. He begins to rub his throbbing temples, leaning over the sheet. Shadows drench the page, leaving him to have to squint to read the words.

The poems always start off cheesy and broad, which used to cause Flug’s lips to curl. But now… he knows better, he knows how dark the words and their connotations quickly get.

_Did it hurt?_

_When you fell from heaven?_  
_Directly into the fiery embers of Hell,_  
_right at a demon’s doorstep_  
_where he’s walked over you more_  
_than the welcome mat you landed on._

_Little bird,_  
_just couldn't handle the pressure…_  
_from the air._  
_Going up,_  
_and up,_  
_and up,_  
_you just wanted to come down,_  
_didn't you?_  
_Just to breathe…_  
_for a moment._  
  
_Just to get some clarity_  
_from the demons that you carried on your back in the sky._  
_They taunted you_  
_making you go so much slower than you would have gone without them there._  
_They held you back_  
_from such better horizons,_  
_from the highest hierarchy of Heaven._

_They,_  
_those **passengers** on your flight, _  
_were the ones who yanked you down,_  
_weren't they?_

_You wanted them to crash with you._  
_To burn with you._  
_To die with you._  
_To be the one in control_  
_Having the power to drag all of them down for once._

_Sweet revenge._

_Yes,_  
_all their actions pale in comparison_  
_to the demons inside yourself_  
_that are so dark_  
_they won’t let you near Heavens gates,_  
_not anymore,_  
_not after this,_  
_nothing will ever be the same._

_They're unescapable._  
_You just wanted to drown them,_  
_down,_  
_down,_  
_down,_  
_but running away_  
_only leads you to larger ones._  
_Isn't that right?_

_Now you’re trapped,_  
_flightless and broken,_  
_burning more with each passing day to a sharper crisp,_  
_head spinning under that bag,_  
_slowly cooking to perfection_  
_to be served on a polished plate_  
_at the hands of the creature wearing the black hat._

Down below she's drawn a photo of Flug’s bag, torn to shreds and covered in blood, his goggles across the table, shattered; and Black Hat is at the head of a table, dabbing the bloody corners of his mouth with an alabaster napkin coated in crimson. Not even Flug’s bones are left as scraps.

  
He throws the note down, chest heaving.

How could she- how does she know this all? How is it possible? There were no survivors, no one but him.

He was the only one to live. 

Gasping he lifts his bag, exposing his mouth in an attempt to get more oxygen flowing. His vision spins. He catches the back of the ivory polaroid photograph.

He has to know now what it is. 

Does it have to do with her poem? Or is it completely unrelated?

Fingers twitching, he flips it over, and his eyes only have to scan it to know exactly what the photo is.

Memories shoved aside, he remembers it all from a single quick snapshot. The day the photo was taken, the weather, how he was feeling.

Those exact feelings come rushing back.

He throws the photo back down, twirling around on the pads of his feet.

  
The first step he takes makes the blood drop in his shins, and suddenly, his legs are bubbling and freezing. He continues to walk on, his legs feeling slightly numb. Yet he can still walk. 

He can feel his face growing paler. But at the same times it’s so hot.

He rushes for the table in the corner of the lab that has a bunsen burner on it, with the gas hose already connected to the gas tap, thankfully.

Before he takes another step he whirls back, the chalkboard and checkered floor tilting around him. He grasps the envelope, note, and photo all in one hand.

He focuses on walking, stumbling slightly. He feels like he’s treading through water, yet at the same time everything happens fast in rushed snippets. Everything like snapshots around him, filtering in like a polaroid seconds later after he's already seen it. His heart is running faster than his limbs, urging him on, but at an irritating pace that his system can’t keep up with.

He feels like he’s going to pass out.

He’s going to pass out.

His fingers clench around the bunsen burner, and he throws the papers down beside him.

Every inhale wobbles and feels useless, because he can’t breathe.

He stares down at the table, grounding himself.

Man he really should have ate something. He shouldn't have drank coffee on an empty stomach.

The doctor’s heartbeat quickens even more, somehow, wrapping around his neck.

No focus.

He has to burn these so that no one will see them. Anyone can walk in at any moment and see everything! He has to get rid of this.

He swallows. The first inhale in several moments breaks free inside him, exploding cool air.

He sags forwards, relieved to feel the air coursing through him; but of course his next inhale stutters inside him again and he can’t feel the oxygen anymore.

He turns the metal barrel at the bottom of the bunsen burner completely until it won’t shift anymore, to successfully cut off the air flow. He twists it back slightly, two reverses, so that only a bit of air flow can get through. Turning the gas tab until the silver handle lines up with the tap, he waits until he hears-

 _Hissss_.

There it is.

  
The gas is coursing through the burner now.

He breathes out, lungs trembling, reaching for the match box and tongs that are across the jade table. Crawling across the counter with his upper body, he uses his sweaty palms for purchase. His chest is squashed against the frigid table top. He can feel his pulse skipping between the table and chest.

He hates the feeling so much.

Swiftly he slides back to the end of the table where his legs are, matches and tongs trailing across the table in one of his hands after him. He used his empty hand to inch him back to the other side of the table.

Ripping open the match box, he hastily lights the match. A flame springs over the top of the match.

Exhaling, though all it serves to do is leave his chest feeling clogged, he holds the match over the top of the bunsen burner.

And the flame instantaneously wilts away into charcoal on the top of the match, cinders floating into the air and vanishing.

Seriously?

Flug’s chest is so tight now. His ribs are closing in on him, yanking his pounding heart closer to his skin. He’s vibrating.

He wants to scream, but knows the lab isn't soundproofed. Someone would come in, someone would see.

He gets a new match, lighting it luckily just as effortlessly as the last, somehow with his quivering fingers. He thrusts the small flame over the bunsen burner.

THIS time, thank everything in the universe, the bunsen burner bursts into a long blazing blade of fire.

Too long of a blade, akin to a brightly washed tiger lashing it’s sultry claws at him.

He fiddles with the tab at the bottom of the bunsen burner, twisting it counterclockwise until the blinding tangerine hue shrivels to a barely visible weeping indigo. The indigo traces around the outline of the, now shorter, flame. Electric blue swings in the inner core of the flame, lighting up the most blistering location in the flame.

He captures the tongs now, holding them like a pair of scissors. With them he clasps the envelope first, lowering it into the center of the fire where the blinding blue is. The blaze steadily catches the corner of the envelope, gradually chomping at the envelope. It withers away into the flame, and the ballerina slipper tone leisurely slips into one of ground up lead.

Once the conflagration reaches the middle of the envelope, Flug wretches it out of the direct flame.

The sink is besides the table, luckily, so in five strides he’s ripping the tap on. He flings the tongs in the sink, but keeps his grip on them to let the burning envelope slip free. He keeps the water running, smoke clouding behind him as he turns back to the bunsen burner.

He latches onto the poem next with his tongs, snapping it in the place where the envelope once was. He watches the midnight ink melt, sobbing across the lines and blurring everything in a mess of vowels and consonants.

Flug waits longer on the burning of the note, wanting it to get eaten alive. 

Toasted peppermint assaults Flug’s nose now.

He dunks the tongs under the pounding stream of water again, this time staying to watch the paper disintegrate. It’s greasy now, and mostly incoherent. He releases the paper out of the clutches of his tongs, watching it fall into the sink, but the last of the melted words make themselves seen.

Flightless and broken.

  
They're glowing scarlet, resembling a fresh brand on an animal.

The words are watered down to crumbs, and race down the sink.

Flightless and broken.

She had to enchant them. This means she has to know he burns them. Is she watching him now?

Is she always watching him?

He shoves it the pondering away, returning to the searing bunsen burner. The onyx ends of the tongs are drenched in water now, dripping droplets onto the ebony table top. Flug wipes them with the sleeve of his lab coat, leaving streaks of bubbly water in its trace.

Ignoring the wet trail, he snags the photo and places it in the open flame. He twists the tongs around so the front of the photo is revealed. His pupils don’t leave the polaroid this time.

It's the original copy of the photograph. How she even got this… Flug never even knew who had it in their possession.

The water droplets that sprayed across the photo from the tongs sizzle away, leaving rough salt to scratch out parts of the photo. Most of the scratches etch across a smiling Flug.

On the left and right of him are two men.

A stranger wouldn't notice, but to Flug, and apparently her, it’s perfectly clear. Flug’s eyes are squinted from his cheeks pulling up from his smile, yet have a far away look to them, appearing waxy. His pupils are small, and he is crouching away from the man to the right of him who has his arm around him. His lips are curled awkwardly, wavering; and his empty hand-- trapped between the man on his left’s body and his own hip-- is clutching at the bottom of his beige coat.

To anyone it would appear that the man on the right was lying his arm heavily on Flug, and Flug could just be momentarily weighed down by it.

People would assume they were all great friends.

But they were far from that.

The photo was taken by a photographer who pulled them all three aside randomly and instructed them all to make it all look like they were having fun and were excited to board the plane.

Ironically both corners of the photo catch fire first, both men burning away, just like how they did when the plane crashed.

It leaves Flug in the center of the flames, crouched and left with only himself to hold onto. Gripping himself to help ground himself. Just like it always has been.

Flug almost drops the photo. Almost.

He races to the sink, holding the tongs out with his arm extended as far as it can go. He flings the photo in the sink. It’s still on fire, burning his face to a crisp.

The flames attack his body, racing to his face and scorching his cheeks.

Flug’s face is burning.

The polaroid somehow missed the water’s stream, and Flug has to move the handle of the sink to reach the photo.

The only remains of the photo now are his panicked eyes, before they disintegrate away because of the force of the water.

Through the metallic paper towel roll he catches sight of his eyes. They’re disoriented from the dirty metal, but even then he can see the same expression in the photo in them now.

He rips his bag and goggles off all at once, slamming them on the sink’s daisy counter.

Everything burns. The peppermint is back in his nostrils, and the burnt flavor only makes the bitterness of the mint even worse.

His cheeks. He can feel the fire again.

Thrusting his hands in the water, he starts aggressively splashing the cold water on his face. It soaks the edge of the sink, and the front of his cobalt shirt. The sleeves of his lab coat are dripping, because even when he pulls his sleeves up, they won’t stay up.

But he doesn't care. His eyes are stinging.

Everything burns.

Smoke from the burning photograph still lingers in the sink and sticks to the hairs of his nostrils. He keeps his eyes shut, continuing to splash the freezing water on his face, and into his nose to block the smell out.

Even the frosty water hurts, boiling up his nose. He can still smell it.

The fire.

The bodi- just… everything.

His lungs ache and are scorching, and his hands are burning from the drastic bleak temperature of the water now.

  
Gasping he tears himself away from the water, bracing his hands on the side of the sink. It still reeks of smoke; it’s stained the air. He leaps backs far away from the sink.

His heart quakes, gagging and curling up in a fat ball.

The air is so humid.

  
The bunsen burner is still on!

  
He turns back to it, cursing at the large flame. He grips the bottom of the bunsen burner once more, twisting counter clockwise to slowly close off the air flow.

The top of the blue flame erupts in tangerine, dipping inside the azure flame. Blinding porcelain snow caps over the top of the flame, melting the fire down into a smaller and smaller flame.

Finally the fire dies, sinking back inside the bunsen burner.

He heaves a rough exhale, chest trembling. Everything’s tumbling inside him and making his nerves skip.

He lies his head on the powder table in front of him, rolling his forehead on the rough surface from side to side.

He struggles to breath. He’s inhaling, sure, but the air won’t stay in. He knows air is coming in but he can’t feel it coming in.

All he can see are his own panicked eyes. What he knows they look like right now.

The intruding questions he can’t begin to answer won’t stop barreling in.

  
Nothing will stop! Yet everything around him is motionless and silent.

How she even finds these things, and knows the truths, are beyond him. How she crafts them so effortlessly into poems as if the subject matter isn't a big deal. If he wasn’t so scared he would be livid at her dangling chunks of private information as if they aren't a big deal.

Like it isn't a big deal he killed a ton of people. Like it isn’t a big deal-

An inhale kicks up his throat, forcing him to turn his cheek against the table to be exposed to rich nitrogen. This time he can feel the breath again.

Steadying himself with the palms of his hand he shakily removes himself off of the table, staring downwards and closing his eyes. His pulse thrums in his wrists and he can feel it pressed against his chest and-

this isn't helping.

Flug wants to cry, but something is holding him back from doing so. His eyes sting, and the tip of his nose burns with the salt water building up in him; but only a sheen amount of all the tears in him coats his irises.

There’s tightness that feels like his heated veins have tied themselves together in large thick wads of balls. They’re trapped in his wrists now, flooding the tightness and heat to his knuckles, and clenching the edge of the table once more only releases some of this.

Why does she mess with him? Why does she put in all the effort and care so much?

All he does is make the inventions! And Black Hat takes all the credit! So what threat does he pose to her? Absolutely none.

The questions tighten their hold around his throat, choking him, frustrating him because none of this makes any sense! There’s no logic behind her actions towards him, no explanations towards her clearly alternative motives.

Thinking about it all only makes everything worse.

His blonde locks fall in front of his eyes, brushing against the bridge of his nose.

Oh shit his bag! The doctor’s eyes abruptly leave the surface of the table, surroundings mashing together in a massive blur as he looks for his bag. He’s been sitting in the lab for who knows how long with nothing covering his face; anyone can walk in at any moment! His vision focuses on it where it lies abandoned besides the sink, thankfully narrowly missing the splotches of water around it.

He stumbles towards it, almost ramming into the sink. The second he reaches it he thrusts it back over his head in one smooth motion, goggles coming on with it.

Fishing another bag out of the drawer besides the sink, he lifts the bag on his head up to reveal his lips.

He crumples it in his fist, bringing it to his lips to finally breathe. Hot breath explodes over his dry lips ah he exhales harshly into the bag.

His limbs ache, ribs prodding at his sides.

Back digging into the edge of the wet sink, he sinks down along the wooden drawers under the sink. The floor is frigid, but feels good against his torrid body.

The bag crinkles, deflating and inflating rapidly around his tense fingers.

He glances around, trying to focus on something else. The world around him is settling back into place, not as rocky as it once was.

The cat poster with Flug’s bag and goggles over it catches his eyes first, the “hang in there” under it ridiculing him.

He quickly breaks eye contact with it, and would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t in the predicament he was in right now.

The next poster is one of Black Hat pointing at him, a bolded “ **GET BACK TO WORK** ” lingering underneath him. His brows are drawn down as far as Flug has ever seen them go, one eye a thin slit and pupil a stark crimson.

Right, he has work to do. For her.

Jittery nerves stomp up his spine, and crap his body is wracking in shivers again.

He squeezes his eyes shut, bag inflating and straining against the pads of his fingers.

Work calms him, once he falls into the motions.

All he has to do is get up, breathe, and get back to work. He’ll start the blue prints first, of course, and then go into everything he’ll need to finish the invention.  
Keeping his gaze straight ahead and remaining buried in thoughts, his slightly trembling fingers trace along the drawer handles behind him. His fingers skim up until he reaches the edge of the sink, and his fingers bite into it.

Scrambling up onto his legs, he leans all his weight into the hand gripping the table.

Once he’s up the arctic dampness settles into his senses, and he groans lightly. The collar and front of shirt, the edges of his sleeve, and hands are freezing and sodden.

And under his lab coat his armpits are tarnished with sweat.

He’ll have to change.

Heading towards the coat hanger, he exchanges his coat with an identical and drier one. He hugs it around his body, walking back to the white lab table.He ignores the dampness on the collar of his shirt. It'll dry. 

Slipping his apricot gloves on, he drops the crumbled bag on the table, and lowers his bag back on to completely cover his face.

His hands still shake, heart jogging lightly. Every now and then an exhale will break on its way up, or an inhale won’t fully come in.

But it’s all his own fault.

He should've burned it all the moment he got the envelope.

Next time he will…

  
Well, back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I feel bad making Flug panic when I just wrote that for my last fic... but I found it necessary to show how much Elvira gets to him. 
> 
> Let me know what you think; feedback fuels me!
> 
> My tumblr: paperhattt


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one! Thank you all for the incredible support so far :) 
> 
> I wanted to link where I based Elvira's style on from this chapter: 
> 
> Her face and hair: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b7/af/dd/b7afdd050a5341bc7689270352e2334f.jpg
> 
> Her top: https://www.gothicplus.com/image/cache/catalog/elegantmoments/1447-black-fishnet-top-900x900.jpg
> 
> Her bottoms: https://cdn-img-0.wanelo.com/p/87b/839/05b/a4abdbb9490911d4c4cc9e9/x354-q80.jpg

He doesn't see her for several weeks. That’s how it works with her.

She vanishes in and out; sometimes for so long that Flug grasps too closely onto the hope that the last time he saw her was for the final time.

Her visits are scattered between her showing up herself, and her sending her minions. Flug mainly sees her minions, so he has the luck to not be “graced” with her presence.

But occasionally she arrives herself; and when she does, she’s even more irritating and distracting than Demencia is in the lab. And that’s a hard feat. A feat that should be impossible.

The worst is when he isn't told that she's coming.

He isn't given time to prepare and digest her aura before everything happens. But even if he had the warning, inside he knows that it wouldn’t help. Nothing can prepare him for what she does.

She shows up like she owns the place.

Like she owns him.

Footsteps are what give her presence away. Her steps are defined and heavy, demanding to be acknowledged. To be felt.

Her nails are always the first thing to linger on him. They’re always long— too long— sharp, and a new color. For as long as he has known her, he’s never seen the same color on her nails, just like her hair.

Peppermint follows instantly, bombarding all his senses. Burning up his nostrils to sizzle on his tastebuds, leaving his tongue burnt. His mouth and lips frozen and bleak, saturated with the bitter mint.

Yet, he would rather inhale the peppermint over the feeling of her nails. The scientist would, any day, steam peppermint and breathe the fumes in, choking on it and eyes watering, over having to feel those nails.

He hates them. Especially when she traces them along his taut shoulder blades.

Just like she’s doing right now.

Even with having his bag on, he has never felt more exposed. His breath clogs his throat, forcing his hands to still over her newest customized order.

He can’t help it. It’s a natural reaction to her, and his shouts to feign casualness have faded to whispers. Because, by now, he knows he can’t pull it off.

How could he keep working like this? With her basically petting him like a dog… like her pet.

He resists the shudder fighting to wrack up his spine, but the sharp twitch of his nose and upper lip he allows.

His own fingers twirl the ray absently in his gloved hands, attempting to look like he’s doing something. It’s clear to them both he’s not. In the doctors defense, there’s nothing left for him to do with the ray; it’s done, and has been for an hour now.

The second he had heard her heels clicking, at a smooth steady pace, he ran towards the ray. The only advice he ever has for himself is to just try and get her out as quickly as possible. Of course, it never works; she always overstays her welcome.

Regardless he had it in his hands to give to her, but she snuck in on him. The blood rushing in his ears and the screeches of grabbing the ray to thrust it in her hands had distracted him.

Now he's trapped.

And she always has to touch him! Because she knows how much it bothers him, can feel his blood crawling away from the pads of her fingers. To him, even when her fingers dance lightly above his skin, it feels harsh. Invading. He can feel her nails in his bones.

Everything in his system just wants her hands off him! With each passing second he grows more and more insane, getting closer and closer to screeching and shoving her away. But he knows that would be letting her win if he gives her the reaction she wants. It would only make it all so much worse, and she would touch him a lot more.

It’s strange to him that someones mere touch affects him so much. It’s just nails and fingers. Black Hat’s nails are longer, probably, but he doesn’t feel this bothered by it.

  
Strangers have brushed shoulders with him, shaken his bare hands, rammed into him. Demencia grabs and throws him around all the time, and 5.0.5 carries and hugs him unexpectedly continuously.

Black Hat digs his nails into his shoulder, and he lugs him up by the collar of his shirt. His touch is the definition of harsh!

He’s thought about this numerous times, dissecting his emotions for an answer as to why the physical contact bothers him so much. Sure she freaks him out, but so does Black Hat, and strangers, and being man handled unexpectedly. He feels the stalling of his heart in all those situations.

But one night, the answer just popped into his mind.

Her touch is the only contact he’s ever had with a person that actually disgusts him. The only person that makes his nerves all wither and yowl, just by barely pressing one finger into his skin. Skin that is covered by a lab coat and a shirt!

The nail of her pointer finger tracing down his arm stomps his thoughts into thin dust, and he can’t even remember what he was thinking about anymore. He expects the nail to make its way back up his shoulder, but instead it keeps going torturously slowly all the way down to his hand. Now he can see the color of them. A deep aquamarine that is more on the greener side, and from an angle looks onyx.

Flug’s fingers freeze on the ray he's holding. His pupils dart the furthest to the corners of his eyes they can, towards the grey lab door. His eyes ache from straining his pupils so far, and his lids drop down automatically. He stares ahead blankly at a large dent in the metal wall, trying to wrestle down the heaving of his chest. He holds his breath.

Where is Black Hat when he needs him?

This never happens when he's here to supervise.

Her nails reach his hands, and even under his thick marigold gloves he can feel them.

She lies her fingers over Flug’s, pausing.

Flug crouches away, stomach digging into the edge of the chiffon table, but her body follows his slightly.

Snappily her fingers jump off Flug’s, chomping onto his thin wrists, and crap that hurts! Her nails bite into his veins, and he can feel them shifting deeper into his body to get away from her touch.

This time he can’t keep back the shudder, and it’s so powerful it yanks him away from the edge of the table.

His hands start to shake, and inwardly he curses himself.

He’s letting her win now.

His hands tremble harder at the feat.

Everything’s about to get worse.

Swiftly she yanks the invention away from Flug. Keeping one hand on his wrist, her thumb running along his thrumming pulse, her other hand slips behind her. It returns, her fingers twirling a pink envelope in the corner of his left eye.

Flug chokes, air plummeting out of him. His lungs heave as his heart drops, only to leap back up into a full on run once more. A bead of sweat breaks from the thin stream of sweat at the top of his forehead, slipping down his cheek.

She places the envelope in the palm of his glove, closing her hand over it. She squeezes, before letting go.

Flugs heart beat has surged even more. He's sure she can feel it, because her face is right by his neck, with her other hand glued on his pulse. Her chin bores into his shoulder, hair brushing against his bag.

She hardly ever hand delivers her envelopes. She has never brought up the contents of them in person. So, the fact that she is this time worries him. Immensely.

The only other time she outright gave an envelope to him was the first time she ever gave him one.

Momentarily the thought darts across his mind that this could mean this is her last one. The end since she’s doing what she did when she started.

But that would be too good to be true. The envelopes will, most likely, only stop when she dies.

She twists the ray, humming lowly as if she is pondering something. From the octave Flug knows she already knows the answer.

“I wonder if it works.” She whispers the words directly in his neck, her breath causing goosebumps to erupt across his neck. The hairs there he can feel stiffening.

She holds the ray up with a steady hand, aiming it in Flug’s chest. The metal lies in front of his heart. His chest is heaving, drawing the ray up and down with it. He doesn't know how when no air is even getting in. Through his nose he inhales, throat stuttering.

She leans closer, chin shoving his skin forwards.

Flug glances down at her finger that flicks over the switch to turn the invention on.

Click.

The doctor leaps, and his shoulders would have knocked into her chest if it weren’t for the strong grip she had on him.

The invention whirs.

Flug can’t stand still. His legs are knocking into each other, and his arms are wobbling.

He knows the horrors the contraption does. They already tested it. The sentence is clomping on his tongue, but won’t come out! It works! She confirmed the email she got it she knows that it works!

Perspiration bleeds to the outside of his bag.

He whimpers, because that’s all the protest he can manage to do.

She laughs lightly, right in his ear through his bag. Even with the extra layer he can still feel her breath. Her peppermint breath.

“Just kidding~” she drags her pitch up, lightly singing. She grins against him, before tearing herself abruptly off him.

The pressure of her body against his back is gone, but he can still feel her frosty touch.

On his wrists, neck, arms.

Everywhere.

Like he’s just been dipped into an ice bath, and the stinging leaves his skin raw and bleak.

His quivering intensifies, and from her not supporting him anymore he sags into the table. His hands clench the hard surface, head hanging to stare down at his taunt fingers.

“Is that how tired you are? You were there when you tested it,” she spins the ray in her hand, “it is your invention after all. You’re the one who made it, so you should know it works.” 

Flug opts for not saying anything. It’s the safest option. Instead he focuses his energy on ceasing his trembling and oxygen back in his wrinkled lungs.

He wonders faintly with the energy he does have how she knows he's tired. Only everyone in the house knows this, it’s a fact that he’s typically tired.

“You’re last invention worked brilliantly, as usual.” she simpers.

Praise is another thing she lays heavily on him, and once more, it leaves him cringing.

Compliments are rare. Even when it’s dropped from Black Hat’s mouth, it’s gruff and sounding like a big deal for him to be speaking it. Like he shouldn't have to, and it’s a burden to have to assure the doctor he's doing fine.

With her the consonants are drenched in sugar. It’s all too sweet. So sweet sounding it makes his tongue coil, and he can't handle it.

He isn't used to compliments being spoken in such a way.

What bothers him most, however, is he can never tell if she's being genuine or not.

She's most likely not.

Rounding the table, she halts directly across from him, forcing him to look at her.

And the second he sees her, it’s like how it usually is. Looking at a stranger. The only familiarity being her mocha eyes and body structure.

This time her skin is tan, and dozens of freckles are sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. Her hair is long, with layers framing her angled face. Whispers of aquamarine highlight the outer sections of her hair, and intertwine down in brighter hues down her ebony wavy hair.

Flug still doesn't know the answer to how she makes her appearance so vastly different. She could be using an invention, or be talented in makeup and dying and cutting her hair.

Demencia swears it’s makeup. She’s claimed to have seen one of her freckles, another time she had them, smeared down her cheek.

Her clothes are something Flug tries to always advert his eyes from. Today she's sporting a long sleeve tight black fish net top that is completely see through. It ends at her belly button, and if it weren’t for her long hair in front of her, the doctor would be able to see her nipples.

Inwardly he cringes.

Hanging loosely off her shoulders, arms untucked from it, is an oversized jean jacket.

For her bottoms, because there’s no other word he can think to call them— they’re not pants or shorts—the sable fabric hugs at her hips. It slips into a fishnet pattern, before slipping back to pure ebony, thankfully.

Breaking his eye contact from her bare skin, he catches sight of her black heeled boots that go up to her knees peeking under the table.

She grins, flashing her perfectly ivory straight teeth as she leans into her palm onto the table. Her hip arches. “The ever so shy doctor. Black Hat really has to assure you more, doesn't he?” She tosses the ray from hand to hand, plush coral lips frowning in feigned sympathy.

She leans closer to him, obsidian pupils straying to the middle of her eyes and lighting. “You should have seen the effect your glorious invention had on the woman I used it on. Her spine actually curdled into herself, and miraculously didn't crack. Her screaming was so intense-“

Luckily in that moment Black Hat swoops in, saving the day.

Flug’s heart is racing.

He can only imagine how that story ended…

He’s heard the end of too many. Of how his inventions brought her so much pleasure, and others so much pain.

She straightens, grin stretching. She steps away from Flug, strutting towards Black Hat.

They exchange words, but Flug isn't listening. They both are grinning sinisterly and he doesn't want to hear the words truthfully.

Instead he stares at the ray hanging from her slim fingers. He already knows the horrors it’s going to cause others.

He avoided it. But the next person to meet his fate won’t be so lucky.

He stares at the envelope that is getting crumbled in the palm of his hand. Jolting he glances at Black Hat, who is oblivious it. He crams it into the inner coat of his lab coat, hand fluttering.

Flug shifts back to watch them just in time to see her taking her leave. Her burnt walnut eyes are trained on him. Her surroundings blur into slow motion, and his ears fall numb. She steals the air from him again. Her pupils skip to where the letter is, and she returns her gaze to his face to wink.

Then, she’s gone.

He turns back, expecting to see Black Hat. However, he's vanished as well.

 

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

 

He has a few blissful hours of forgetting about the envelope.

He returns to blueprints for more inventions, this time with concepts brainstormed by Black Hat. He drowns himself in work to get rid of the trembling in his heart that spreads to his limbs. It works. It always does.

Until he feels something rough against his jeans, and when he glances down and sees a blush bleeding through the alabaster of his lab coat, he remembers her envelope she left him.

He attempts to push the thought of it away.

He can at least finish the rest of the final blueprint first. There’s no rush to open it; the envelope isn't going anywhere.

  
Yet… the nagging is back. The envelope is burning his thigh.

  
His thumb dips down, fingering the top of the envelope. It’s smooth, and mindlessly he runs the pad of his thumb across it.

He shouldn’t.

His pointer finger reaches down, meeting his thumb.

  
He can’t.

They both start to pull the envelope from his pocket.

He has to.

His arm is quivering, and he grips the envelope with both hands.

  
It shivers in front of him, begging him to open it.

The first thing Flug notices is the lack of smell. There isn't a trace of peppermint on it.

Interesting… and alarming.

He smells copper. Bitter copper, as if she had melted a penny and smeared it inside the letter.

The paper sticks together, words glued together. They’re dripping. She’s painted the letter this time, something she's never done before.

Some of the words are chipped and crusted, and others drag across the page. The paint must either be old, cheap, or a combination of both.

  
This time there’s more pictures. Joy.

  
He faces the words first. They're always easier for him to handle, he's used to dealing with hurtful words.  
  
_**My songbird,**_

Flug blinks, lowering the letter. Huh, that’s a new one. He attempts to decipher the meaning, but quickly moves on as he sees the overwhelming paragraph of words stuffed on the page.

_**Out of laziness my last worker didn’t give this letter to you. I apologize for the delay; I know how much you look forward to reading these. So, to make it up to you, I killed him for his incompetence, and used his blood to redo the letter.** _

Flug almost drops the letter. He can feel his own blood fleeing from his system, flooding to his legs. He gapes, staring at his fingers that are currently touching the words.

He’s touching blood.

He inches his fingers to the corners of the paper where it’s pearl once more.

_**Can you believe he also somehow managed to loose it? Luckily I have a remarkable memory, so I remember every single word. I held his quivering heart in my hands until the last beat weakly squeezed out (the best feeling after killing someone is to drain their death out; milk it for everything it is worth. Walking them right to death’s doors, and being in complete control over their very last beats. Their death being entirely in your hands. You should try it next time.) and used the juices in the palms of my hands to write this.** _

The rich crimson fades and picks up randomly amongst the paragraph. But with the last sentence has faded considerably.

_**Whoops, I just ran out. I’ve scraped by palms with my paint brush for all the blood, but sadly, the last of it has stained into my skin. Not to worry though, there’s plenty more blood, just in less interesting and fun parts of his body. I’ll get to the original letter, I’m sure you’re very eager to read it.** _

_**Do you remember three weeks ago? You may not, you’re memory isn’t the best, but not as bad as that lizard girls… when you were singing “True Love” in the shower?** _

_**It was as delicious as your face.** _

Face??

How does she know what his face looks li-

The last of the blood in his face drops to his heart, serving in making it beat even quicker.

He snatches the photo that flew out of the envelope, flipping it around.

Oh my gosh.

Oh fuck.

It’s his face.

His actual face.

She got a photo… of his face.

He’s shirtless too. But oh my gosh his face is showing.

It’s a photo of him from a couple weeks ago, captured just as he had gotten out of the shower. Angled directly so the side of his cheek with his huge burn scar is on display.

At least she had the decency to take the picture from the waist up…

There’s another photo, peeking behind the first.

He exhales, prying it out of the envelope.

Oh great, there’s another photo too.

Three photos! She’s never sent so many.

Clearly she's breaking her own rules with this entire letter.

Well, these photos can’t be worse than his face showing.

The first one he glances at is already worse, not leaving much hope for the last photo.

It’s so much worse.

His face is revealed… along with the rest of his body.

He’s naked.

Holy shit she actually took a photo of him naked, and sent it to him on top of that!

Does she have copies?

How is this possible? How could she take these without him seeing?!

How is she getting into his bathroom? And being able to hear him singing there must be microphones! She was watching him shower. She probably has been ever since he’s met her, watching his naked bo-

“Ah God!” He exclaims, nose wrinkled, throwing the picture down face first once it all registers in that he's staring at his own naked body.

She’s a pervert!

No. She's just insane.

He’s back to looking at the first picture of him. Poor him is obvious to wherever the camera is, glancing in the mirror at himself.

The last photo is face down, right beside his sprawled fingers.

He doesn't want to look at it.

It’s probably just of his… he really doesn't want to finish his thought.

  
The last is zoomed in more to focus on his face, directed at his scar.

Flug winces.

This time he’s bent over the sink, pads of his pointer and middle finger ever so lightly touching the scar on his cheek. Part of his burn injuries from the fire.

He does this every time he gets out of the shower. It’s part of a ritual for him, to examine the scar and see if he can spot any differences. Any fading or chafing.  
There has yet to be a major difference.

On the bottom of the photo is a neat thin arrow, pointing to the back of the photo. It’s garnet, and dripping.

Whining, he slowly turns it over, avoiding touching the arrow by turning it by the opposite corner.

_**Such a beautiful mark, it’s a shame you cover it. It’s your best feature. I would love to rip that bag off you and exam it closer. Watch it bleed, and dance a flame in front of it to watch your eyes light through the flames of it, just to get the smallest of an idea of what the crash was like for you. To watch you freak out, in person. And then to lightly lower the flame, until you can feel the heat directly on your mark. I bet it would boil.** _

Below her note is the pad of her thumb, stamped their with that man's blood.

She wasn’t lying about the blood.

Of course she wasn’t.

It really isn’t paint.

Okay, he can’t do this anymore.

He can’t burn this. He can’t burn blood.

Oh man everything he’s touching is drenched in blood.

Blood in his hands.

All because of him.

Just because a man forgot, or perhaps purposefully, didn't give him a note commenting on his singing and giving him his own nudes.

He’s about to lay his face in his hands but then remembers he pried open bloody letters. He doesn't care that a bag is protecting his face. His fingers itch, he has to wash his hands.

How is he going to get rid of this??

He rallies up the photos in his hands, stacking them on top of each other and making sure the backs of the polaroids stay down.

How is she even getting these as a polaroid photo? There’s no way she’s taking this with a polaroid camera.

He couldn’t miss a polaroid camera, flashing off, in his own bathroom!

Searching around, he’s left with the only other option. To shred it.

Snatching the letter, he’s about to head to the back of the lab where the dusty shredder is, when he sees there’s more. The letter’s not over yet.

His fingers are lying over the bloody vowels again. Oh God.

His shoulders leap, and he throws it down on the lab table.

There’s no point in ignoring the rest when he’s already gotten this far.

It really can’t be worse.

His face is his identity, his everything. After seeing that, nothing else about him matters. His face is the only privacy he has. It’s such a hard thing to have in this house. Sure there’s only scars under it, which wasn’t at all a big deal to anyone in the house who has seen his face, but from the public it’s the only thing he’s in control of. It’s his secret.

And now, she knows. Just like how she knows everything else about him.

  
There’s nothing left. Nothing matters, not after she knows this.

Breath blowing over the letters, he leans over the note, returning to her daunting words.  
  
_**Especially the parts where you sung the lines, “Why do you rub me up the wrong way?**_  
_**Why do you say the things that you say?”, and then everything after that… absolutely breath taking. But there was too much emotion in your voice when you sang for you not to be thinking of anyone specifically…**_

_**I know who you were thinking of.** _  
_**Are still thinking of. Are always thinking of.** _

_**There’s other days to taunt you about this. I’m in no rush.** _

_**Be careful, though. You sing louder than you think.** _

_**You wouldn’t want your crush to hear, would you?** _

All he can do is hold out on the hope that she thinks he has a crush on Demencia.

But Demencia is the one known for having a crush on Black Hat, his number one obsessive fan girl.

So, that only leaves the obvious option.

Clearly it isn’t 5.0.5.

Of course life has to mock him.

This is way worse than his face.

How can she possibly know?!

Flug slams his fists down on the table, a new feeling sparking in him. A new reaction.

He had been so careful. Way too careful. Overly cautious!

Flug has never spoken that secret aloud. Never told anyone. Never thinks about it.

On camera he shakes in front of Black Hat! And cowers away and…

Breath punches in.

He’s trembling again, but this time his nerves have sunk in the boiling lava.

Flug can’t decide whose he’s more livid at. Himself for, apparently, being careless, and still not knowing how she’s getting all these private photos of him…

Or her, for being smart enough to figure it all out.

  
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

 

Two weeks crawl by.

And in that span of time, Flug has lost even more of the little insanity that he did have.

With every action he takes, he thinks deeply for doing it. He’s terrified.

Before he showers, he checks every crook of the restroom for some type of camera or filming device.

Every single day.

And he finds nothing each time, but still can feel her eyes on him. Now he takes hasty showers, and showers used to be his time to unwind and relax.

He can’t sleep, because he feels like there’s cameras in his room too. Even though there aren’t, because he’s checked everywhere; but convinces himself that he’s missed one somewhere. That there is a camera, because he can feel her stare. He knows what her boring eyes feel like on him! He’s felt it enough times.

He’s not crazy.  
That’s a lie he’s been telling himself, any ways.

Flug has started to sleep in his lab, mostly because he literally passes out. More lies, that he isn't going to fall asleep, not this time, are what lulls him to slumber.

His spine is permanently uptight.

Only work distracts him enough, eventually, to calm his heart and shoulders. It’s like a massage, very slowly ebbing his aches away.

Until he is yanked out of work from another distraction, back to the real world, and eventually remembers why he feels the nagging.

She’s watching him.

When he is really exhausted and wants to sleep, he curls under the lab table in the darkest corner of the lab.

He hopes that the darkness, or the angle of where he lies, is enough to block her view on him.

  
The tension fades when he does this, so she must not be able to see him. 5.0.5 is the first to notice his peculiar behavior.

He whines around Flug, and by the third week is the one carrying him to his actual bed.

Flug’s back is now even more irritated from sleeping on the hard floor, so an actual mattress does wonders.

And 5.0.5 is nice enough to stay with him…

  
After Flug faintly clenching with all his exhausted might to 5.0.5’s arm, whining and crying for him to stay. Please. Because she’s watching, she’s watching him. She’s seen his face.

He blabbers on, but it’s always enough for the bear to stay.

Just asking is enough for him, but Flug is so tired he feels the need to beg. He needs him to say yes.

The bear always smells like flowers— like lilacs, roses, and lavender— smells differing vastly from peppermint. And his fur is softer than any blanket he’s ever had.  
And sure he can’t speak, but his grumbles and sympathetic whines are more than enough for Flug.

 

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

 

Demencia notices shortly after 5.0.5. She brings him food, and slips him decaf coffee in the evenings. She thinks she’s being sly, but Flug can tell the difference between a beverage that’s caffeinated and one that’s not. But for her sake, he plays along. Taking her subtle hint that he needs sleep.

Back Hat narrows his eyes at him, but after the forth week, he doesn't pester him as much as he usually does.

Flug doesn't think Black Hat’s noticed, yet the doctors too dizzy most days to really focus on anything anymore. Because even when he does fall asleep, he can only manage for a couple of hours. Nightmares of her wakes him up, of receiving more envelopes, or of her pointing his own inventions at him again. This time letting the havoc wreck, and killing him.

  
Week five, however, is when he knows he’s officially lost his mind.

He’s been on his feet in the lab for the entirety of the day.

Flug’s swaying, attempting to tighten a screw into a piece of metal. But the screwdriver keeps sliding past the screw, and his lids keep drooping, blinding him. The invention is due in two days. He has to get this done, he’s already so behind.

Tears lick at the corners of his eyes, but in one blink are gone. He’s too tired to cry. He’s already sobbed so much. He’s just so tired, but sleeping scares him just as much as being awake. Because even in his dreams she’s watching him.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, nails digging into his shoulder, and he leaps. A shrill lodges into his throat, but he swallows it down once he realizes the uncomfortableness doesn’t strike him.

It’s just Black Hat.

His eyes widen, screw falling onto the table. It would have rolled off the table, but Black Hat’s hand snatches out, placing it firmly back on the table.

What if the inventions due today? What day even is it?

His heart rams into his ribs, shaking his form.

Man he feels sick.

“Go to bed already, you’re even more useless like this.” Though the connotation of his words are negative, they bring comfort to the doctor. His growl seeps into his skin, and deliriously a smile wiggles onto Flug’s lips. He leans back into Black Hat’s hand, almost touching his chest, swallowing down a laugh.

Black Hat blinks, stilling momentarily.

Then he shoves him towards the door, growling once more. He stomps away, Flug only catching something along the lines of the delicateness of humans.

This time Flug takes himself to his room, distracted by Black Hat’s actions. He’s in a warm blur, where he momentarily forgets about her.

 

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

 

This time, he gets a warning when she’s coming.

It’s been two and a half months. As of recently Flug was just starting to get back to his usual, less paranoid self. And of course the moment he is, she has to come back.

This drives him full force into paranoia again momentarily. She had to have been watching him, because now is the perfect time to step back into the picture. She’s probably been laughing at him, watching him fall apart.

The warning came when Black Hat stepped into the lab, stalking towards a working Flug.

“You have Elvira’s order done she ordered last Thursday?”

Flug turns towards his chest towards him, hands stilling around a beaker full of lilac liquid. Heart prancing from her name being spoken so causally, he nods once sharply. “O-of course sir.”

They tested it earlier this week, and sent her a recording as proof the invention works.

Resting the beaker down, he takes long strides to the silver cart in the back of the lab. The ray is on top of the cart, a sticky note with her name sprawled across it. He rips the sticky note off, grabbing the invention.

“Excellent. She’s on her way right now.” Flug has never been so thankful to have his back turned to his boss before. Even though he can’t see his face, his body language screams his feelings loud and clear.

The ray slips from his grip, and thankfully he manages to barely catch it with his other hand.

“R-r-right n-now, s-sir?” He hesitantly twists around, met with a deadpanned Black Hat.

“Yes Flug, that is what now means.”

No. No way.

He’s just started to feel okay again.

Flug is NOT staying around. He can’t handle another envelope. He’s not about to take the risk that she has another one ready for him.

He doesn't even know what else she could know. What else is there to know about him? What could possibly be worse?

She always finds a way to one up herself, so he knows she has to have some other dirt on him.  
He can already feel those dark irises of her’s on him, he already does everyday still!

He can feel her nails raking down his shoulder.

His body wracks in a tremor.

  
Nerves fling themselves into his blood, and he feels himself vibrating everywhere. A raw need, a must, bleeds into his bones. He has to leave, he has to go.

He can’t do it.

He won’t.

He’s loosing time right now she can walk in at any moment!

Racing towards the front lab table, he sets the device down lightly.

Black Hat already knows how it works. Therefore, he doesn't need to be here.

There’s no reason for him to be here.

He repeats it in his head so that he doesn't look too timid as he attempts to casually walk out the lab door. His legs are stiff. He’s holding back the urge to run.

There’s nothing wrong with leaving. Black Hat never said he had to be here, he has no purpose being here.

Black Hat hasn't said anything. He probably doesn't even notice he’s leaving, and if he does he won’t care. His job here is done.

And technically, the doctor is right. Black Hat wouldn't have said anything… if Flug hadn't looked so tense and reeked of apprehension as he was walking too quickly out of the lab.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Black Hat narrows his eyes at him, taking a step to be closer to Flug.

“I-I uh, just h-have to go use the restroom.”

In the silence Flug switches from foot to foot, glancing towards the door. Come on Black Hat she is going to walk in at any moment!

“Surely you can hold it for another two minutes.” It’s not a question.

“I really can’t.” He squeaks out, staring at the lab door. It’s so close, all he has to do is take a couple of more steps.

But when he glances back at his boss, he immediately knows there’s no way he’s getting out of this. Black Hat’s face is hardening, expression twisting downwards.

It’s become about power control now. A common battle, one that Flug always looses. But honestly he never bothers fighting it, because it’s easier giving Black Hat what he wants.

And when Black Hat gives an order, even one as dumb as this, he won’t back down. Because doing so means he looses; and Black Hat always wins.

“C-can’t you just hand it to her boss?” The complaint weaves between his words. Black Hat’s brows shoot up, mouth hanging slightly.

Flug clenches his teeth. Yeah… that was not the right thing to do.

There’s no way he’s leaving now.

He fights down the whimper building in his throat.

Black Hat sits still, brows so high they’re past the brim of his top hat.

He still hasn't said anything.

“L-look I’ll b-be back in a second.” Flug takes a tiny step towards the door.

This is a complete lie. He’s not coming back until she’s gone.

Forget this, he has to go now if he wants to get out.

He scurries towards the door, but suddenly, a force holds him back.

Flug’s head drops down, limbs frantically moving against the dark pressure that’s swallowing his legs and, luckily his chest, or else he would be face planted on the checkered floor.

“I said no.” Black Hat growls, octaves dipping into his demonic voice, and he shifts his arm roughly.

The force whips Flug around so he’s forced to stare at Black Hat. He ends up cross eyed, legs crossed over each other and arms spread out in front of him. The pressure is gone on him now.

Blinking, Flug stares at him while straightening himself out. It’s all he knows what to do, because he doesn't know how else to convince him to let him leave.

There’s no way to convince him.

Another whimper wrestles in his chest.

He’s trapped.

Footsteps.

No, heel steps.

Heavy steps pounding down the hall, with each passing millisecond growing louder and heavier. The soles of his feet are throbbing, the floor beneath him is as well.

Before he can think about his actions, the nerves overtake his system, and his legs make the decision for him.

He thrusts open the lab door, rushing out and keeping his head down.

He can feel her gazing at his back. Her eyes focused and burning down his spine. Melting it and leaving his shoulders to cave into his chest.

Peppermint is all he can smell. His legs leap, propelling faster down the hall.

And he knows he’s left Black Hat stunned, mouth hanging open right now.

He turns the corner, jogging towards the bathroom.

He just disobeyed Black Hat, and is alive right now.

He laughs airly. Yeah, he’s officially lost all the sanity he had. 

  
Black Hat is going to kill him.

But something bubbly erupts in his chest, numbing the pain and making him laugh harder. Making him genuinely smile for the first time in months.

His limbs are so light, he can barely feel them. His lids are hanging. He can’t breath because he can’t stop laughing. Tears build in the brims of his eyes, but for once, it’s not because of pure sorrow.

Leaning all his weight into the steel bathroom door, he opens it and slips into the crack he manages to yank open. Sliding against the back door, his giggling is swallowed down by his will to need to breathe. Oxygen drowns his previous delirious amusement as heaviness in his eyes takes over. He leans his head down, gasping in air.

Flug glances up, chest heaving, and catches sight of himself in the mirror. His lab coat is half hanging off him, completely off his shoulders and drowning down his elbows. Through his slanted goggles he can see the bags etched under his eyes, yanking them down further.

He’s a mess.

His hand slips down to the doorknob, locking it.

The resounding click makes him feel better; safer. The four walls feel tighter around him, encasing him, but he likes the feeling. He can see everything around him, he knows what’s there. What’s watching him.

Plopping down on the toilet seat, he cradles his head in his hands.

Along with everything else, his heartbeat catches up. It slams in to him, lugging his chest down and bringing the heaviness back.

He stares at the door handle, lock pulled tightest it can go to ensure that it’s locked.

He knows he isn't really protected. Black Hat can get in… yet, that’s not who he’s afraid of.

Not this time.

Strangely, he would rather deal with Black Hat than with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit I got lazy at the end haha. I didn't edit this so any errors are my bad. 
> 
> Feedback fuels me :) 
> 
> My tumblr: paperhattt


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much again for all this support. I haven't had a chance to respond, so I definitely will be soon because I am incredibly grateful for you all. :') I can't say thank you enough! 
> 
> I am so sorry for the delay! I have been incredibly busy, and honestly didn't expect this chapter to be over 10,700 words... whoops ahah. I planned to put more in here, but decided to split it up into two chapters so this wouldn't be an overwhelming amount. Hopefully I'll quickly have the next chapter out, since it should be shorter. 
> 
> All mistakes are definitely mine because I didn't edit this as much as I wanted to, because I really wanted to get this out to you all.

All Black Hat can think to do is gape at the, now closed, lab door. Just as Flug had predicted.

How could Flug just run out on him like that? He’s never, throughout his whole time working for Black Hat, pulled a stunt like this before.

Well, technically, the doctor has run away from Black Hat. Countless times. But never when Black Hat explicitly told him to stay, and several times at that!

Who does he think he is now?

What does he think gives him the right to disobey one of his, Black Hat’s- his bosses!- orders?!

His claws dig into the palms of his hand, intensifying the increasing strain he feels that wounds up his bones. The rawness is always the worst in his chest, like fingers prying at his skin, spreading it apart. With each passing moment, as more unanswerable questions screech in, his skin stretches more and more. It burns instantly from the heat of those hands, pressing harder and harder down on his chest, leaking fire into his body.

Through his clenching teeth air hisses in, but doesn't assist at all with lowering the rising flames.

The veins in his iris crawls out, its tail throbbing against his eye socket.

More inquiries pound against his temples now. How could Flug do this? How? What in him is stupid enough to think he could possibly get away with this without being harmed?

Is… he getting soft?

Black Hat pauses, tense shoulders declining a millimeter.

Does Flug honestly believe he can get away with these things, because he thinks Black Hat won’t punish him?

Does he not respect him anymore? All his scorching blood pools in his fists, overflowing them. The spare blood bubbles against his wrists. His fingers are pounding, yet stiff. They’re clenched in fists behind him, drawing his shoulders up higher over his head.

He clenches his jagged teeth even more, which causes his jaw to ache slightly.

He loves the feeling; he’s used to it.

He adds more pressure, because the pain makes him feel better.

But he’s still pissed. Beyond outraged.

He imagines the ache transferring to Flug. That his clenched fists have a vice grip around the doctor’s slender throat. The clogged blood that kicks his fingers and palms are the pulse from his neck, heart singing out for him the words his mouth can no longer spew. Because he can’t breathe.

Black Hat’s mouth twists to a grin, yet his teeth are still clenched. It makes it more difficult for his lips to snap upwards, but he manages.

The cries of how oh so sorry he is, and to please just let go! His weakening whimpers, noises cracking, the high pitch of pure air that manages to trickle out of him. Even that air sounds like a beg, he can hear the unsaid pleads in them.

Black Hat’s fists clench harder, fingers beginning to numb.

Those eyes of his, widening because of beliefs that he’s truly going to die; and then those tears, lapping at the corners of his irises. He would somehow hold them at bay, like he always does, letting them blind him as an exchange to show that he’s not crying… yet.

His vision would be fading on his own anyway, so it’s hardly a sacrifice. Darkness would be cornering him, slowly consuming him.

Then at the last moment, when Flug would lie calm and accept death, he would drop Flug back on the floor.

Because letting him die would be the easier option. The better option.

Instead he can watch him, chest heaving, struggling to collect himself once more. Air is hard to get back in when it’s been gone for so long. The burning isn't pleasant.

Yes, Flug needed some reminding of his place.

Black Hat releases his fists, sprawling out his fingers to get the blood pouring back in them.

The lab door swings open. For a split second, Black Hat thought Flug had the audacity to return from his “restroom” visit.

But even he knows Flug isn't that stupid.

His shoulders roll, hands leaping to pull down his wrinkled trench coat. His lips crack into a grin, but even he can tell it’s a bit more tight than usual.

Oh well, Elvira won't notice it.

She beams, crossing over to him as her obnoxious heels click along on the checkered floor. So much racket out of such tiny things.

Ah well.

Black Hat straightens his spine, making sure to keep his shoulders back slightly for a casual look.

Back to business.

* * *

 

Another deal sealed and completed. And another custom order! Black Hat simpers, tossing her blueprints and instruction card down on one of the ivory lab tables. Flug will find it.

Oh right… Doctor Flug.

Strangely, the strain and humidity doesn't return to him. He does clutch his fists slightly, but more out of irritation for what he’s feeling now. It weighs him down. He despises this, and rarely ever feels it.  
Confusion.

He hates not knowing things. He’s the boss, he should know everything! Especially when the answers are towards a human of all creatures! They’re so easy!

Or, that is, they should be.

But his doctor has always been a strange exception. After all, why else would Black Hat keep him around if he was too much like the rest of them?

He plumps down on a stool, only to immediately jump back up. Eek how does Flug sit on those things? They’re so small and rough.

Black Hat heads for his usual wheeled chair towards the corner of the lab, settling down in that instead. He frowns, crossing one leg over another. With one foot he propels himself to face the lab door again, just in case Flug decided to come back in.

He knows he isn’t though.

He’s probably in the bathroom cowering under the sink and hiding. A nervous, overdramatic wreck.

At the laugh under his breath Black Hat’s spine heightens. This laugh didn't sound barking or bitter. It came out warm, and…

No! It was a snicker. He’s laughing at Flug’s weakness, as usual.

He nods to himself once, before resting his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow digging into his knee. With his eye trained on the dull door, the rest of his focus dwindles back into his mind.

It’s true, his scientist has never purposefully disobeyed him. So why would he now? What changed?

Especially over orders so easy to follow! He’s given him much harder ones, ones that he expected Flug to not follow through on.

Did his doctor have to use the restroom that bad? No way was he going to the bathroom in the first place, Black Hat doesn’t buy it. He knows Flug’s lying, erm, eyes; besides, the tone of his squeaked voice is a dead give away.

The old Flug would have just gone in his pants if he couldn't hold it, especially if Black Hat told him he couldn't leave. And he would have only have had to give the order once to be heeded.  


The old Flug wouldn't have argued with him. Wouldn't have made him have to repeat himself when he clearly already knew what he had demanded the first time!

His ribs grinding together spark the beginnings of another fire, the embers starting to disintegrate in his blood. He opens his mouth, the brisk air from the environment of the lab killing it.

No, no, he has to focus, he’s getting somewhere.

There’s a variable he’s missing. Something that’s making him change and act this way.

Something is giving him more confidence. Regardless of him stumbling over his words, he spoke them. He left him.

Black Hat just can’t place what it is that’s doing so.

Not yet.

He’ll figure it out soon enough; he always does, so he isn't worried.

Black Hat rises, pushing his chair back under the table with the tip of his foot.

He struts away, flicking off the lab’s lights as he opens the door.

He knows Flug won’t be returning for quite some time.

Lucky for his inventor, he sorted his thoughts and emotions before storming off to find him.

Yes; by the end of this, Flug is going to be begging him to punish him already.

The human mind certainly does triumph all. While Black Hat will be leaving Flug alone, the doctor will be imagining thousands and thousands of horrible scenarios that Black Hat will do to him. Be reminded of all his punishments in the past, and think that whatever he has in store for him will certainly be worse. The doctor won’t be able to sleep, plagued with nightmares, slowly walking himself to the brink of insanity. No, he’ll jump right off that cliff and fall into that deep space of paranoia.

There’s no worse punishment than paranoia, especially raining on a human mind.

Once he figures out what sparked Flug’s actions, then he’ll punish Flug if he hasn’t driven himself mad enough.

Because where’s the fun in asking Flug himself what's changed?

No, he’d much rather watch Flug suffer in agony around him. With each passing day seeing the wrinkles under his eyes darkening as he crumbles more and more apart; until he can’t hold those precious tears back, and is begging Black Hat. Desperate for something he doesn't know, asking but unable to form words because he can’t comprehend what he wants anymore.

To which Black Hat would turn his back, not giving him what he wants.

Because in this perfect scenario, Doctor Flug would have suffered as much as his mind could handle. Enough to just almost kill him, and arriving to that destination all without Black Hat having to hold his hand and walk him there.

* * *

Demencia typically enters the lab, at the very least, seven times a day in search for something new.

As her fingers skim over the shelves of past and half-completed inventions, the same thoughts always come to her.

She can never understand why Black Hat isn't impressed with, most, of Flug’s inventions. The majority of them are violent, and do cool things; even if they don't go the way they were supposed to. To Demencia, not knowing the results make them even more exciting to mess with. The amount of risk they’re putting themselves or others in by merely touching one of his inventions is unknown!

Although she already knows by the first visit that she most likely isn't going to find anything exciting for the rest of the day, she just can’t stop herself from looking.

It’s mostly due to boredom.

But throughout time it’s become a habit, like continuously opening a refrigerator. Even though a person knows there’s no food in it, they can’t stop returning to it. Something in them hopes that food has majestically appeared. In Black Hat’s house, however, food appearing out of no where would not be a strange occurrence.

It’s the third time she’s stepped into the lab today.

Flug’s racing around the lab throwing liquids into beakers, while 5.0.5 has his arms full of forgotten ingredients and equipment.

His bag is crumbled, askew on his head; yet, sadly, not revealing any of his chin or face. His goggles mirror his bag, but he continues on as if he doesn't even know anything is out of place.

His thoughts are moving faster than his hands will.

“G-gah the tongs!” He freezes, feet spread wide apart as his head thrashes from left to right. He can’t catch sight of anything, everything is blurred, but he knows that the tongs aren't anywhere around him! “Where are the tongs?!” His fingers fly up, tense and curved beside each side of his head.

5.0.5 cautiously steps towards him, holding the tongs out delicately.

Flug snatches them, back bending over his work station once more. Not even a thank you or a smile. 5.0.5 frowns, setting all the stuff in his paws carefully down on the table behind him.

It’s nearing the hour when Black Hat pops in to see the scientist’s progress- or therefor, lack of.

Demencia smirks, 5.0.5 catching sight of her now. His frown deepens, and Demencia knows he is seconds away from whimpering out a warning to Flug. Who, most likely, wouldn’t even notice.

Still, she doesn't want to take any chances. She pounds her feet on the floor, ignoring the aches in the back of her calves and on the soles of her feet.

“Doctor Flug!!” Demencia drops her voice to the lowest octave it can reach, yanking his name across the bones in her throat to hit a gravelly tone.

Her throat throbs in protest, now scorching, but the doctor’s leap and screech is definitely worth it.

Whipping around, back digging into the edge of the white table, his chest heaves. She can practically see the outline of his heart shoving his upper body forwards. “Demencia!” He inhales, choking slightly out. “Stop doing that!” He stomps his foot, beads of sweat now bleeding through his bag.

Even from under the goggles she can see the deep wrinkles under his eyes. Geez, Flug really needs to learn how to calm down.

Demencia simpers, shrugging, and bounces into the lab.

Flug spreads his arms out, sliding to the right to attempt to shield what he’s doing from her. “Oh no! Get out of here! You’re just going to ruin this!” His fists clench momentarily, before his fingers sag with the rest of his body. “Please, I really need this done.” His consonants are punching her heart, and the look in his widened eyes almost makes her feel bad.

But it doesn’t, because she’s seen him in worse states.

Usually his face, from what she can see of it, is the definition of irritation. Drawn down furred brows, and his wrinkles momentarily vanishing to slink into his narrowed eyes. A spark spills across the top of his pupils, darkening them, and the light pools in the bottom of his irises.

But today his brows are still shot high, far up past his bag; and she would have thought it was from shock still being in his system if it weren’t for his eyes.

They kind of look like how they do when Black Hat grabs him unexpectedly, and hoists him up by the collar of his shirt.

No, they’re worse than that.

They’re more like when Black Hat transforms into… whatever it is that he is.

But this expression being pointed towards Demencia? It’s just, wrong. All wrong. She isn't supposed to actually scare him, just… rattle him up a bit.

His pupils have diminished, yet somehow still look large because of all the emotion that’s being pumped into them. Filled to the brim, with his pupils wiggling, pleading her to do something.

But pleading her to do what? Leave him alone? He never cares THIS much.

Demencia frowns slightly, bouncing her shoulders to let her thoughts roll off her. Oh well, it’s nothing she knows the answer to. Flug’s probably just tired, which always makes him more stressed than usual. Which is a hard feat.

Oh, and of course Black Hat is due to come in at any moment! And Flug definitely doesn't have whatever it is he is supposed to.

She’ll make sure not to touch anything on the desk he’s in front of, for the sake of Flug’s health. After all, without the scientist in the house, what would she do all day? It would be so boring.

She bounds towards Flug, smiling while batting her long lashes.

The doctor throws his head so far back Demencia catches sight of his chin. He groans, twisting around to face the cluttered work station once more. “If you insist on being here-“ 

“I do~” She sings out over him.

Flug stumbles two words back in his sentence, his past words faded out by her’s. “t-then please put on one of my lab coats. These chemicals are very dangerous.” He stresses the last two words, letting them slowly strike into the air, turning to stare at her right in her eyes.

Demencia scoffs, opening her mouth, but Flug interrupts with a stern glare. “Do you remember what happened the last time?”

Demencia lips tighten, arm unconsciously jumping to her left forearm. Her fingers dance along the, now smooth, porcelain skin. She rubs the pad of her thumb along her arm hairs, watching them stand and then fall with the direction of her thumb.

A couple months ago Flug had been dealing with chemicals and, long story short, she ended up getting too close to the workstation. She was jumping, body right next to Flug’s, but he was ignoring her. He was pretending to still be working, and Demencia could tell he wasn’t at all focused; she could see his right eye twitching! Sentences sprinted out of her mouth, but from all her leaping, her elbow knocked a bubbling beaker over that spilled onto her bare arm.

She had run and sobbed to Black Hat afterwards. All he did was ignore her. She whined out that he’s going to have to learn how to care for her when she’s old one day. That’s what lovers do when they’re old, they take care of each other.

When she told him this he loomed over her, snarling that her injury will be the least of her problems if she continues to bug him with this nonsense.

So she settled for allowing Flug to stitch her up. 5.0.5 passed him the bandages and disinfection, lingering nearby and whimpering.  
She smirks at the memory. Stupid bear, it was just a small burn mark.

Flug too, come to think of it, had been way too concerned. He looked at the mark, seemingly hesitating, before bandaging it.

Near the end he mumbled something, and from what Demencia heard, it was something along the lines of hoping it didn't scar.

Demencia wanted it to, so badly; so naturally she told him she wasn’t worried because a scar would be so cool.

He froze, before his expression twisted. A deep breath broke through his body.

5.0.5 had taken a step back, while Demencia merely blinked and raised a brow. Flug didn't get seriously angry often, so she was already expecting him not to go off.

And she was right.

Because all he told her was to please be more careful next time. Through that sentence she could hear an uproar of more syllables that he was barely holding at bay. But those words never made it off his tongue.

Heck if she knows why he was so mad. Scars are awesome! Then when people asked her how she got it, she could make up cool stories.

Sadly, it didn't scar. It did stay on her skin for quite sometime though. She would flash her arm around Black Hat, who was completely disinterested in it.

What she didn't know, however, is how much Flug stared at it. That it haunted his dreams, and for a long time made him watch Dementia a lot more closely in the lab. He avoided working with hot chemicals for a while as well. He hated himself for not catching the beaker in time before it splashed on her. He was right in front of it! If he had just been paying more attention, he could have caught it.

He snapped into action quickly, thankfully, getting her under the chemical shower in record time.

She hated it in there. But unbeknown to her, it saved her skin and bones.

The chemical would have literally disintegrated her bones. Flug would have taken Demencia having to have a scar over that, any day.

Demencia slips behind Flug, heading to the wooden coat rack that’s on the right of him. It’s pressed against the wall, besides a pipe, moved there by 5.0.5 so Flug wouldn’t ram into it in his blinding panic.

She slips on one of Flug’s many spare lab coats, hugging the thick white fabric close to her body. It’s like being encased in a second skin… a much baggier skin, since it hangs off her.

She doesn't mind though. She loves it. The lab is freezing today, so it offers a lot of warmth.

She turns her head towards Flug, whose entire focus is back on his work. His eyes are glued to a pear liquid in a large beaker. His head flows the motions of the juice racing down a spiraled tube. It travels to a larger beaker, bleeding out into lemonade. That’s what it reminds Demencia of, anyway. She’s sure the liquid has some drawn out and confusing name. If it was up to her, she would call things simply what they are. Yellow liquid, or lemonade are the two she would go with. Urine, if there was a third yellow liquid in the mix. Then banana juice would be next, and maybe crushed canary feathers. All of that is so much easier than some random chemical that is never said in an everyday normal conversation.

Seeing the sleeves hanging over her hands breaks her concentration on her own thoughts, and soon she’s chomping on her tongue to shove down laughter.

Demencia rolls the sleeves up to her wrists. It’s insane to her how long they are, especially since Flug— who seems so frail— is only three inches taller. Yet his coat manages to drown her figure.

She flips her head to the side, deeply inhaling in his lab coat. The coat lapels reek of Flug; bitter coffee, green tea, and faint traces of some types of flowers Demencia can’t name. Perhaps from 5.0.5, or the laundry detergent?

Shifting back to Flug, he is now judging her, eyes narrowed. The question is clear in his eyes. Were you just smelling my coat?

She sticks her tongue out at him, and purposefully— lightly for his sake— bumps into him as she walks past him.

As she raises her arm to roll up her left sleeve one last time, however, a new smell wafts off his coat.

Something she’s never smelled on Flug before.

Peppermint.

But, no way, Flug doesn't chew gum. He hates gum, which makes sense to her given the bag that covers his mouth. He can’t blow bubbles.

Demencia only chews bubblegum or a tropical or sour flavor because mint burns her tongue.

5.0.5 can’t chew gum because he would swallow it, and gum would go right through Black Hat’s fangs. He would grow bored of it anyway, the same motions of just aimlessly gnawing. Flavor eventually literally paling, so having to end up spitting it out; he would call it a waste of money.

There’s no one else in the house.

But there’s someone who smells like peppermint. She knows who it is, yet at the same time just can’t remember who.

She hums, strolling around the lab. Maybe he’s been eating something with mint? Mint ice cream? She isn't sure what else has mint in it.

Oh, no Flug hates mint. She remembers now, because of that one time during winter 5.0.5 offered him a peppermint mocha. It was hilarious because he spat it out in the sink, whip cream still hanging on his upper lip like a mustache as he washed his mouth out with tap water.

5.0.5 had started crying, since Flug has never reacted so negatively to something he’s given him.

Demencia chortles under her breath. Ah, good times.

Feelings mutual with her, so she isn't offended or anything. It probably burns his mouth too.

So why does he smell like it? Who around him has that scent so strongly that it can linger on him for so long? It would have to be someone whose around him all the time…

Well, she’ll remember who it is on her own time she guesses.

Maybe a chemical or experiment smelled like it… but now what’s bugging her is that she knows there’s someone that always has that strange odor!

Shrugging again, she comes to a stop in front of the emerald chalk board. Smears of long equations sprawl across the board, and, yep she’s bored.

Huffing she thrusts her hands in Flug’s coat pockets, leaning back slightly and zoning out. Her vision blurs to shamrock and alabaster shiny specks as she does so, the chalk board becoming disfigured. When’s Black Hat going to come in already?!

Groaning, her fingers wrap into light fits.

And then, she feels it.

In the left coat pocket is a thick sheet of paper. No, it doesn't feel like a paper. It feels like…

She peers down, opening the left coat pocket. Yep, an envelope!

Well, well, well, the lab just got A LOT more interesting.

She smirks. It’s already been torn open, so she’ll just help herself.

Snatching the envelope out of the pocket, she holds it up to study it. Immediately her eyes are watering because, whew it’s like a peppermint bomb!

And the inside of it is somehow even worse!

Gagging, she wrenches the lined paper out of the envelope. Taking two large steps she rests herself against a lab table. As she yanks the paper out, old crumbled flower petals leak out of the envelope.

A note and flowers?? In a pink envelope!!

Demencia wiggles her brows, biting her stretching lower lip.

And Flug has held onto this! Just what is he hiding from her?

She unfolds the paper, crinkling filling the room. She bites down giggles, glancing from Flug to 5.0.5, and they both haven't noticed. 5.0.5 is now wiping down the chalkboard, back turned to her. With Flug buried in his work, there’s no way he’ll catch her until she makes her discovery known! Her shoulders quiver from the force of her amusement that chokes and makes her stutter out gulps of air.

Finally the paper is undone! Whoever this is, folds their paper way too much.

This time, however, the thick aroma of peppermint sends her memory skyrocketing backwards.

Elvira! That’s who always smells like mint!Wait.

Holy crap.

No way!

That could only mean…

Her lips falter down, nose scrunching.

That this is from… Elvira.

Oh.

She was hoping it would be from… well, anyone but her, really.

She didn't even know Elvira was capable of love notes!

She still doesn't believe it!

But then, her smirk is back. Whatever, this is still incredibly interesting. The fact that it’s from Elvira of all people makes it even more so! Because Flug and Elvira!Well, Demencia has to read it to even be able to comprehend the idea.

Neat cursive swims across the page, and it’s impeccably prestigious.

She lowers the paper because she is already fed up. The mere smell is making her nauseous! She’s starting to get a headache, and she never gets those. She only ever causes them.

Groaning, she physically has to hold the paper as far back as she can. Just to get some of that flavor away from her.

How does Flug read these things??

And of course she just has to have perfect handwriting, nothing on the woman is ever out of place!

Nothing about this letter is amusing this far, it’s all irritating.  
This better be good.

She squints at the words, holding the lined paper up towards the florescent lights.

Whoa hold up!

She yanks the paper back towards her, grin invading her face once more.

Oooh yeah, this is definitely all worth it!! And she’s only read the first two words!

Even with the little amount she’s read on the lengthy note, that she’s assuming is a love poem now by the structure, she is already struggling to keep her tongue bit.

But then as her eyes skim over the next words, she can’t hold back her cackles, not after this!

“She calls you her,” giggles break her next word, and she has to pause to collect herself. She’s kneeling into herself, pressing her lips together to attempt to fight the laughter back. Regardless, spitting “pshhhh”’s flee from her. 5.0.5 is glancing at her, brows slanted as he frowns at her. Flug isn't even looking, still watching the last of the liquid drop into the new beaker.

So she let’s her cackles free.

  
At her wild hyena screeches he slowly puts down his, now empty, beaker. It clunks against the table, matching the tone of his heavy sigh. He turns to her slowly, hand on his hip.

“Wha-“ The question has a heart attack on his lips, leaving them limp and slump. His arm and mouth follows the actions of his lip.

Because there, in Demencia’s hand, is a pink envelope.

Her pink envelope.

Everything in his mind shuts down, senses decaying all at once. All he sees is that awful sickening light shade of pink. Matching the flush of Demencia’s spit covered bubblegum that she leaves under his lab tables. But even the feeling of his fingers meeting the sticky old gum doesn't compare to the notes inside her envelopes.

It’s been a rough week.

But it all falls considerably short to what’s happening right now.

“She calls you her little bird!!” She finally gets through the entire sentence, letter clutched in one hand as tears stream out of the corners of her eyes.

How could he have forgotten to burn it??!

He never forgets to get rid of her notes, because he knows if he doesn’t, this will definitely happen!

If not from Demencia, then 5.0.5. Black Hat would ignore it since he already believes them to be blueprints, unless if he caught sight of photos inside. The note could simply be detailed instructions.

He has never made this fatal of a mistake before! Was he that tired?

The blood drops from his face, all soaring to his heart. It just won’t stop beating! With each passing moment going faster and faster somehow. He wants it to stop, he hates the feeling.

Oh God. He can’t muster himself to do anything.

His blood is freezing, yet all this sweat is kicking out of him from every crack in his body. Bones are clanking against one another in himself, and oh man his lungs are burnt.

He can’t even feel them, they feel like ashes.

They are ashes.

Are the permanent nerves in him clogging his logical thoughts now?

He forces himself to breath in, but he can’t feel it. He can feel the draft in his mouth, making his teeth frigid and absorbing his saliva, but he can’t feel it in his chest.

He retraces his steps, back to when he had found the envelope the next day after Elvira’s appearance.

* * *

He had stayed in the bathroom all night.

Granted, he was expecting someone to come for him, but no one ever did.

He got up and touched the handle of the door at least once every twenty minutes. Pacing along the tight bathroom, he got himself to twist the handle twenty-seven times. He kept count out of boredom.

It took him hours to gather his wits to leave.

Brainstormings of what to do were planned strategically on the toilet. He considered running away forever, hitching a bus nearby and changing route after route until he got to a small isolated town. But regardless of plan after plan to run himself off course of the map, he knows that Black Hat would definitely find him. There’s post it notes on the walls, warnings to not run away; and he really doesn't want to find out what happens if he tries. Definite death he’s sure. At least right now he has a, very slim, chance of survival.

The twenty-eighth twist on the warm metal handle is when he finally shoves the door open a crack.

While he still has the bravery to move, he slips his upper body out to peek. The hall is dead silent.

No one is out there.  
Flug would assume so, though, since he’s predicting it’s around three or four in the morning.

Creeping out, he eases the door shut to a soft close. So slowly he walked the door to the wall, turning the knob back into place.

He stepped on the tips of his toes, speed walking towards the lab. He rests all his weight on the pads of his foot, not wanting to take the extremely rare chance of waking someone up.

He knows better than to bother trying to go to bed. He is due to be up in two to three hours working anyway.

Besides, the thoughts of everything he’s sure Black Hat is going to do to him just won’t leave him alone! Every time he blinks vivid images of what he could do to him blind him. Just thinking about it causes him pain. He swears he can feel Black Hat’s hand tightening around his neck! He clears his throat, but still feels the strain.

Pulse quickening, he forces himself to exhale.

No. He’s not going to freak out this time! He refuses to.

Yet he can't take it anymore! His heart, his thoughts, the things he sees. Another shiver swallows his body.

No. He inhales sharply through his nose, the fresh air of the hallway burning up his nostrils. He isn't going to panic, not until something happens. There’s no point in doing so now, because it won’t help the situation. This piece of wisdom always leads his heart back to a steady waltz, but only momentarily. It’s a lot easier said than done. How can a person live in the moment when they’re just sitting around waiting for someone to come kill them?! Even in the bathroom he just couldn't stop thinking about it! Every creak he heard he swore was Black Hat, descending down the hall to rip the door open and shred him with his claws.

Or even worse, an envelope slipping under the door. The peeks of some new color of long nails being seen under the door, before they vanish once more for another unknown amount of time.

He can feel them on his shoulder blades, akin to spider’s legs. He rolls his shoulders, top lip scrunching. The whimper in his chest, luckily, remains there.

He fell asleep during some point on top of the toilet, only to wake up— what seemed like ten minutes later— drenched in sweat and unable to breathe.

The scientist had dreamed he was in the lab, and that Black Hat tore open the locked lab door and choked him to death while clawing his chest open. As his claws rained down, it was clear that he was looking for something. He tore open his ribs, bones cracking, going straight for what he wanted. Just like Black Hat always does.

He went for his heart, without hesitation. Flug could still feel it trembling in his chest, even though he could see it withering into a ball, sobbing out blood, in the obsidian palm of Black Hat’s hand. Black Hat had said something along the lines of Flug being used to not owning his heart. Because it already belonged to Black Hat.

But it wasn’t his voice anymore. It was her’s, and his monocle had morphed into another eye, and the irises twisted brown and… he can’t think about it anymore.

He woke with a start, and had to physically get up to be able to breathe again. He was shaking so much that he swears his organs were too, because even his thin breaths hummed off-tune inside him. The notes slammed against his ribs and made everything hurt again. It really did feel like Black Hat had clawed apart his chest.

Unconsciously he quickens his pace down the hallway as he stares down at his, quivering, arms. His legs, he can’t feel them, yet he knows they’re bumping against each other.

He really is a mess. And just when he fixed himself too.

He already knows he won’t be able to sleep for days, a jittery mess of tangled nerves for most likely the next upcoming months. Just like last time he felt eyes on him.  
Ice wedges between the bones of his spine, slivering up it and leaving frigid crystals along the ridges of his back bones. His shoulders are forced forwards as a temporary tremor tears through him for the umpteenth time.

Oh yeah, he can feel her predatory pupils trained on him again.

Unknown to the doctor, someone is watching him.

Black Hat’s pupils are trained on Flug, watching him pass from inside a portrait of himself. He can smell his burnt nerves. With each minute there’s so many of them, multiplying with each other and leading one another to deeper and darker thoughts. They make each other heavier, demanding to be felt by Flug.

Smirking, he slinks off the wall, heading towards his bedroom. He peers down at his watch. Eighteen hours in a bathroom, a nice start to watching Flug break.

His scientist has already gotten so far, and all by himself! His lips tilt harsher, feet silent as he treads.

Meanwhile, Flug has rounded the corner. He’s so close to the lab.

His legs scurry, but his heart starts to slow a tad. Thank everything in the universe he’s made it this far!

But the real refreshing air finally tumbles in the moment the lab door has shut, his back up against the freezing familiar ridges of the lab’s lock. He flips on the lights, relaxing more once he sees his lab greet him.

Gaping up at the pipes tangled along the ceiling, his fingers tug down at the bottom of his bag to trap the warm atmosphere tighter around his head. His hot breath finally escaping to heat his cheeks is like a crushing embrace from an old friend, or parent. What one would feel like from those sources anyway, Flug imagines.

5.0.5 is a friend, of course, and he hugs him. But that’s the only comparison he has really. Demencia’s are more prodding and contain a lot of elbowing to be portrayed as more of an annoyance than affection; eerily similar to how, Flug would guess, an annoying sibling’s hug would be.

The thoughts of the closest people he will ever have to family calm him slightly, and drag his focus away momentarily from the last person in the house. And from her.

At least two people would care when he was murdered. There would be people who would remember him after all, for a little bit, anyway. A bear and a half-lizard girl. Definitely not the way he saw his life going, or ending, more like it.

His lungs are back to being solid, so he trusts himself to walk once more. His fingers itch by his sides, scratching the air, but he’s used to that.

There’s work for him to do, he’s sure. There always is.

But right now that fact doesn't drag his chest down. He needs this distraction.

Work is something challenging; but it’s also an aspect, he finds, that he can slip effortlessly into the motions of. An opportunity to be inside himself and zone everything out, only zooming in on the logic area in his brain. Math, science, numbers, equations; beautiful subjects that have nothing attached to them. No alliterative motives, or unsolvable answers. It’s all just fact.

His lips and brows, for the first time that day, plummet to their natural positions.

Just thinking of work, or all the blueprints he has to start drafting off of, makes his bones no longer tense.

And the silence! It’s gorgeous! At any other time during the day it would be deeply concerning, putting him on edge and forcing him out of his work to check on everyone. But knowing everyone’s asleep makes Flug feel considerably safer.

Demencia can’t come in and purposefully ruin anything, and 5.0.5 can't accidentally do so. No Black Hat breathing down his neck. He can take the steps at his own time, and actually have the ability to go back to ensure everything’s working.

Thinking of Black Hat wakes his nerves up, but it’s always easy for him to swallow down. He’s used to it.

Yet the nerves aren't always due to apprehension, of course. A lot of them are the irking butterflies that have not left him, and have only grown in size. The wings always tickling him and propelling his heart quicker when he was around.

But with the stunt he just pulled, a mass extinction of those butterflies is occurring inside him.

He doesn't know whether to be relieved, or sad because of that.

Well, it’s all his own fault.

Black Hat’s only reacting, well, as Black Hat would.

No!

He’s making excuses for him now?

This whole thing is stupid! From Black Hat’s perspective Flug just had to go to the bathroom; so why is Flug feeling any remorse about this?

Why does he feel bad about disobeying a, dumb, order?

Because he never does, so he’s unused to the feeling?

Even then he shouldn't be feeling this amount of guilt! His chest feels like its eating his heart, and burping it back out in a shriveled shaky mess. 

He can’t believe he’s actually feeling guilty over this. But at the same time, he can.

Screw this, he’s not in the wrong here! It’s all her fault! He had to get away from her, so any punishments he’ll take as silently as he can.

Black Hat won’t hold any more resentment towards him than he already does over this whole thing.

Heh, yeah right.

Flug hates himself for that being the main reason of concern, when it all comes down to it. Like he had even had a chance with Black Hat before all this… like disobeying one order ruins anything. He’s already tarnished any possible relationship with Black Hat long ago.

And if he knew about this whole Elvira mess, ha!

Well, so much for Flug’s calmness.

The air punches out of him as he heads over to his favored work station. He loves the desk in the far bottom corner of the lab, right beside the chalkboard. It’s where he plans his complete blueprints and develops equations.

Ah, the thought of blueprints again is enough to make his shoulders drop, neck aching from the past strain.

He begins sorting through the file cabinet under the desk, fingers fishing through the labels on the tops of the files. At times like this he wades through the, rare, joyous thoughts. It’s just like a wave. He feels like he’s on his back on one, when his mind brings him to this place. Rocking along, letting something else completely out of his element control his body. Calm his heart and flush out the prodding air for a tang of new crisper air.

Flug narrows his options to three files, lugging them out of the crammed file cabinet. It’s all alphabetically organized, don’t get him wrong, it’s just that he has a lot of ideas in there. He keeps everything, even the failed ones, because in a couple months with a refreshed mind he could think of something he hadn’t before. He doesn't like leaving things incomplete, or just settling on them being fails permanently and moving on.

The blueprint process is time consuming, but a lot of fun at the same time. So many possibilities can be drawn from one simple idea, and most of the time, he brainstorms new and better ideas based off a segment of information he accidentally discovers. It’s the stage of the invention process where literally anything can happen.

Yet it’s mainly aggravating, since Black Hat has him on such tight schedules. He can’t afford the time, most days, to ease his way completely through an idea. He has to take the first path that seems promising towards his original end goal.

He just can never get him out of his mind, can he? Exhaling, the waves have now crashed on him, drowning his organs once more. Of course the tide is generous enough to halt right below his nose, leaving him just enough space to get some air in. He plops the files on the counter, but then, something skids to the floor. A sheet of paper.

It lands beside the chalk boards right leg.

It’s an instruction card.

Huh. Black Hat or 5.0.5 must have brought it in.

Then, he notices it.

Lingering below the instruction card, just peeking out by the corner to laugh at him. The edge of another pink envelope.

Shit.

Sure enough, down below on the dotted line, is her name. Except this time, the heart has a slash through it.

Yeah, that can’t be good. At all.

He buries his head in his hands, an airy laugh filtering out the words that he doesn't even know how to form.

Because at this point, he doesn't know what to say anymore.

Can he handle this right now?

No. He never can, regardless as to what’s happening around him.

But now that he’s seen it, it’s all done for. It won’t stop bugging him, they never do.

She never does.

Prying the instruction card up along with the envelope underneath it, he cringes at the feeling of the dust crawling underneath his, trimmed, finger nails.

Plopping the cards down on top of the blueprint files, he wipes his hands along the bottom of his lab coat. Great, now the pads of his fingers are stained grey, along with his coat.

He could have sworn he just swept these floors.

The inventor doesn't stand around this time to let himself fully comprehend the situation.

He doesn't want to hear his body’s reactions anymore. He doesn't want to feel his heart that he knows is ramming against his chest, nor his veins getting plumper because he knows oxygen isn't getting in as well.

He just wants to get this over with. Because he’s tired.

He’s so tired of it all.

Tears fog his vision as his trembling thumb stutters over the seal of the envelope. One, two — a sob crumples out onto his lips— finally at the third aggravated tug his thumb breaks the seal of the envelope, tearing along it in a neat opening.

He just wants her to stop. What more can she know about him?

There’s no other, as dark, secrets to unfold.

Nothing that he is aware of, anyway.

Blinking rapidly, goggles filling with steam, he grips the folded lined paper.

He sniffs up the mucus running down his nose. But it’s too late, it’s all trickling down onto his upper lip. Grimacing his hand swipes under his bag, wiping under his nose and at his cheeks. He can feel the red in them, and the tears are sultry. No matter how many times he wipes at them, it only serves to make his face wetter.

Tossing his hand down, his other clutches the envelope tighter.

He just wants this all to be done already.

Roses and violets tumble out of the letter. He sweeps them aside, narrowly missing the thorns off the stems of the roses. They’re huge thorns, larger than ones Flug has ever seen.

A photo, one this time, is stuck inside the envelope.

Flug keeps it in there, tucked away.

He can’t handle another bagless photo of himself. Not right now.

His quaking intensifies, envelope wiggling in his grip.

Flug can’t look at it. Not when he knows now that she’s seen him dying, face shriveling more and more, with darker circles under his eyes and thicker wrinkles.

Lip wiggling, he continues to blink harshly, clearing his sight every several seconds to see the onyx cursive words. His lashes working like windshield wipers on a car over his waxy pupils.

Thankfully, there’s no blood this time.

But crap the peppermint is back, and this time it is like she’s sprayed twice the amount to make up for not having it the last time.

_Little bird,_

His eyes water, this time from the perfume. He blinks more. Five times, until his pupils are aching and the corners of his eyes shriveling into his brain.

_A poem_  
_told from the perspective of the one you love._

He’s tempted to halt and think about this line. He almost shoves his speculations away, but they come out too sharp. She's definitely talking about Black Hat, but she’s saying love, and that’s powerful.

Does he love Black Hat? 

The letter skids down his palm, hanging off his fingers, dangerously lose to falling onto the table.

He must, because she’s saying so. Because she knows everything. Even before he does.

She’s right.

He does.

He loves Black Hat.

Oh God.

He’s known it all this time! The feeling inside; how did he not know it before? All at once a hurricane wraps around his brain, scrambling everything.

He honesty doesn't know how to feel about this information. He already knew he liked Black Hat, so this was just a… minor step up. It isn't that bad.

Part of him feels happy, heart lighter. Momentarily he can feel the air coursing back down his chest, and the beginnings of a smile pulls at the edges of his lips. But why? To get it off his chest in his own mind? That shouldn't matter, because it doesn't matter whether he likes or loves Black Hat. He is never going to really have him.

The fact that she knows… Black Hat has to know.

The whimper tears at his esophagus, yanking out some of the bones there because his throat is now sweltering, and the burning has returned in the tip of his nose and backs of his eyes.

Great, he’s crying again.

How long has Black Hat known? There’s no way Demencia knows, or else she would have killed him. He’s been making a complete fool of himself— well, nothing new there— but he bets Black Hat has been enjoying every moment of it. He probably laughs behind his back at how pathetic it all is. Flug being stupid enough to fall for him.

Heart quickening, he stares down at his hands. He can’t see, crap, no matter how much he blinks he still can’t see anything. His vision has morphed into a blur, and he can feel the note rubbing against his wrists from all his shuddering.

But Black Hat would say something, wouldn't he? Would he be able to keep quiet? Flug doubts it.

His exhale shivers, and he forces his eyes back to the note.

_Roses are red,_  
_but not for long_  
_they’re blood in a corpse_  
_drying out to a smeared grey hue._

_Hollow and empty,_  
_like drained veins,_  
_is the way love goes._  
_For first it flourishes,_  
_but then quickly wilts._

_For just as fast as the spark ignites,_  
_it thrashes back and bites._

_Like nursing a violet_  
_one soon grows bored_  
_for after giving all that time and energy_  
_and seeing it blossom,_

_what’s left to do with it?_

_After petals have finally opened_  
_and basked in sunlight,_  
_there’s not much left to see,_  
_truthfully._

_It’s the prettiest, and most interesting, they get._

_Flowers aren't eternal._  
_With the more they sag-_  
_torturously slowly,_  
_yet somehow unable to catch up to what’s occuring-_

_the more their beauty gets lost._

_Petals began to ache;_  
_their attributes now turning on them_  
_weighting them down_  
_slowly killing them._

_They latch onto their stems,_  
_but no matter how hard they clench on,_  
_and hold up their crisp leaves-_  
_attempting to piece themselves together with, by now, too worn-in smiles,_  
_words,_  
_and all the lies,_  
_so many lies-_

_they will never be as beautiful as they once were._

_As time goes on they crumble,_  
_physically and mentally_  
_ever so weak,_  
_fragile,_  
_and dull._

_Most of them remain_  
_glued to one place_  
_only moving because of the whims of others,_  
_being yanked along,_  
_while still unable to release their overbearing roots._

_Too many necessities_  
_are needed for them._  
_Homes, time outdoors, and attention,_  
_so much attention._

_In the end is giving all the resources_  
_worth seeing them only blossom_  
_for only so long?_

_They all look the same when they blossom._  
_They say they’re unique_  
_but in a field_  
_they’re all labeled as the same thing._

_Sub categories-_  
_specific names-_  
_differentiate colors and shapes,_  
_but at the end of the day they’re all the same,_  
_placed under a simple name to dumb themselves down._

_Love is fake_  
_incriminated by ones_  
_to make weak creatures_  
_be tricked into feeling stronger._

_When really they just can’t stand suffering alone,_  
_they just can’t keep silent._

_They just have to feel special._

_Everything weak,_  
_dies eventually_  
_and love is the weakest of all,_

_because it was formed by the weakest creatures._

Flug grabs the photo out of the envelope, because what else is there to do?

When he turns it around, surprisingly, his wind pipes have opened up a bit.

Because this time he has his bag on.

Sure the photo was taken in his room, but his bag is firmly in place.

There’s a lilac vase on the obsidian marble stool beside his bed, and Flug is watering it with a tiny teal watering can 5.0.5 gifted him.

Though the flowers are half-dead, he still gives them water out of both hope and guilt. He knows the flowers can’t just spring back up, but part of him swears that they will. He should really know better, he’s a scientist.

The pressure in his chest at the mere thoughts of throwing the flowers away comes from 5.0.5. Because 5.0.5 gave him those flowers, and always does this. He waits until all the petals have fallen before he picks new ones for the doctor. He doesn't know why the bear does this. Perhaps out of belief that the flowers should have until they’re dead to be put on display? Flug doesn't know; all that he does know is that there’s no way he’s disposing of them until 5.0.5 wants them gone.

At the bottom left corner, an arrow points to the back. With a shaking hand he whips it around. All it says is _throw out the flowers already, they’re dead_.

Flug scoffs, tossing the photo down.

The poems words come biting back in, and crap, it really does sound like something Black Hat would say.

It sounds real.

It’s all too real.

Now that she’s done attacking him, she’s gone onto capitalizing his fears.

And the future? That’s a boisterous one. One that haunts him, because he has no idea what’s going to happen.

This isn't a typical "oh I don't know where I’m going in life", and "what if’s".

He’s literally not in control of it. He doesn't have any say, not anymore.

When Black Hat wants to toss him out— kill him— he can. Anytime, any day.

He doesn't get to live here forever, because he’s not immortal.

And one day, he is going to loose the only "beauty" he has. His work ethic.

He can hardly keep up with the way things are right now! Barely making deadlines, and not getting consistent sleep or food.

His body will kill itself from all this if Black Hat doesn’t soon.

What’s going to happen in the decades to come? 

He’s going to crumble under the pressure. He won’t physically be able to keep up. His shaking will worsen, along with his wrinkles and hunch back.

Someone will most likely end up giving him a heart attack, in his mind it’s a tie between Black Hat and Demencia. Or her, if she continues coming around. She will. 

For the rest of his life he's going to see her. There's no way out. 

The tears are back, along with the harsh tremors. 

Black Hat won’t want him in the videos anymore. He won’t want some old crusty man beside him. He’ll probably say something about it ruining the company image, and that no one will take him seriously with an elder beside him.

His vision will worsen. He won’t be able to read instruction cards or blue prints anymore.

He’ll start forgetting stuff. Orders from his boss, or basic scientific equations.

He’ll go insane from everything he sees, and has seen. Turn into a babbling withered form of pure paranoia, unable to stop remembering all the insanity.

And if he gets sick? There will be no opportunity to take the time to recover. Black Hat will end him right there and then, because he will be worthless.

He already is.

And the older he gets, the more worthless he’s going to become. The more of a waste of time, a waste of space, to Black Hat.

Yes, this is what his life has come to. He’s going to literally work out the rest of his days. He’ll never get to retire, never get a break.

He’ll never get love. Not the kind he wants, anyway.

If not for 5.0.5 and Demencia, his own inventions— how sad is that— he would truly be alone.

He had to create company.

He really is like the rest of them. That’s how much he couldn’t stand being alone.

The worst of it, is that Black Hat won’t care. It’ll be such an effortless decision when he decides Flug dies. A simple “oh”, so easy, as if taking out trash. He will know that he can’t keep up, so he’ll strike him down without a second thought. There’ll be no fight, because by then, the doctor won’t be able to fight back.

He already can’t.

And the moment he drops, he’ll be out of Black Hat’s head forever. He’ll find some other human, and start the maddening cycle all over again.

Because, wow, he really is like the rest of them.

Weak.

Black Hat confirms this fact continuously.

And if he can’t handle blackmails and taunts on his own? Frail little notes, poetry, and photos that he can’t find the camera source of after having so long to do so. Then that all confirms it.

He sinks down to the floor, back along the chiffon legs of the table, and the dust is the last concern now. His nostrils quiver, and his lips embrace each other roughly.

He can’t see again. So he stares out into, literally, nothing.

Did he know this all already? Of course.

He just shoved it to the back of brain, because there’s no use in thinking about it. There’s nothing he can do to prevent it. The only way is to just let things happen.

And then, everything breaks.

He falls apart, wailing out. The lab door is shut, and it’s pretty much sound proof, so hopefully he won’t wake anyone up.

These concerns quickly fade to background noise, however, because all the hurt pours in. His ribs are grinding into him, shoving him more and more into himself. He curls into a ball, chest heaving, and he still can’t see.

He doesn't care anymore.

His body collapses to the side. His bag is against the floor, most likely getting coated in dust. His limbs flail, before folding into himself. His fingers bite at the floor, nails sliding across it. The rough chill of the floor grounds him slightly, but it is far from enough. His lab coat has fallen slightly off his shoulders, and he can’t decide whether to let it decline farther, or to hug it tighter around himself. He’s so hot, yet so cold. His teeth are chattering.

With all his trembling it’s getting harder and harder to stay still.

His stomach and ribs hurt.

They hurt so much.

His sobs are kicking them, but he can’t stop crying. He bawls harder, choking on the air. His body moves with his howls, trembling and chest heaving.

It looks like he’s physically being kicked, body spasming.

Everything he’s shoved back in his mind shoots forwards, filling his head so much they’re digging against his temples, yowling over one another to be heard.

He feels like he’s going to pass out again, and he wants to. It would be so much easier if he did, because then he wouldn’t have to put in all the energy to calm himself down!

Squeezing his eyes shut, he attempts to block it all.

He tries to focus on his breathing, but breaks his own concentration several times when accusations towards himself get too loud again.

After sometime, Flug isn't sure how much it seems like an hour has passed, soft blubbering now only flees from him. His chest is still hurling upwards, everything soar, but he eases up on his eyes. He lets them stay shut, occasionally fluttering, and lies on the brisk checkered floor.

One inquiry is enough to make the hyperventilating completely halt, enough to temporarily distract him.

She explicitly states humans. Several times.

Why not say “us”? She’s human too, after all.

That is, Flug’s positive she is.

A shiver races up his spine, bringing back to his awareness the strain in his ribs.

He squeezes his eyes shut again, hands rubbing along his arms to try and limit the rattling of his bones. He focuses back on his thought process.

She must separate herself from humans. Because in no way, shape or form, is she weak.

Doctor Flug remains on the ground, curled in a fetus position. Now that he can see, he stares blankly at the legs of the chalkboard.

Exhaling, his own breath sticks to the drying traces of tears on his cheeks.

He gives himself some time to drain his brain out, locking feelings back up as tight as he can and sending some assessments back to the crevices of his brain.

Every breath punctures his lungs and throat, but he knows that the only way to get it to fade is just to keep breathing.

When his lids start drooping, that’s when he forces himself to stand.

Because he can’t go to bed anymore. His window of time passed.

Besides, he would just have another nightmare. So by remaining awake, he’s doing himself a favor.

He hates himself right now, especially for knowing that he’s right. His blood has turned to sand, scratching him in all the wrong places. His lids won’t stay open and, man, he just really wants to sleep now! His head is whining at him to do so, spine taunting him by slumping.

But he can’t. Black Hat’s already angry enough with him.

He twists back to the table, focusing back on the files.

The first thing he sees, however, are the flowers. Those stupid crumbled roses and violets.

They’re half-dead, stems rotting. The rose petals are burnt to a sable crisp around the edges, the vibrant crimson fading. The violets too have been drained of color, most of them chopped to pieces from being shoved into the envelope.

That's it. 

He's done.

He can’t anymore.

He doesn't know how to word what he’s feeling, but all he knows is that he can’t take it anymore. The sight of them, what they mean now.

Will he ever be able to look at 5.0.5 again??

He growls, hands snapping to the stems of the flowers. Some of the rose petals trickle onto the table. Others stems bite into his palms, making blood specks rise out of his hands.

But he doesn't care. Not anymore.

He crams them back into the envelope, the thorns continuing to stab into him. Wailing, he thrusts them in even more.

He can’t look at them anymore.

The sand is back in him, raking itself against his wrists and eyes.

Next the photo. He slams it into the envelope, folding the note sharply and sending it in there after it.

He won’t look at it all anymore, he refuses.

Sharply jabbing the envelope into his coat pocket, he slams his fists onto the table. Immediate pain shoots up his arms, and blood starts pooling out of his hands and in between his fingers.

In front of him the remains of the flowers are splayed out, some hovering off the edge of the table. Flug swipes them off. He’ll clean it later, he’ll have to sweep the floor anyway.

He grins his teeth, because, fuck he’s pissed now.

She’s human too. She can’t separate herself! How could she act like she's above him in this? 

He’s shaking again. But it’s a strange new feeling, because Flug rarely gets livid.

Just because he's broken, doesn't mean she won't end up in the same fate as him. 

Someday, she too will loose it all. Because she can only separate herself from what she is for so long.

One day, she’ll wilt too. It will just take her longer than the majority.   
  
This brings a grin to his face. Even if she maintains her outer appearance, she isn't immortal. 

The only difference between them, is that she gets to fall on her own. 

Because in this poem, she missed a major fact. Something that does separate Flug from the majority. 

Flug's getting trampled on. And won't get to sag independently, peacefully. Black Hat will be the one to run him over with a lawn mower, or cut him up.

Perhaps, though, she will be the one to end him. 

Flug sighs, the tension fully gone now. It always is fairly quickly.

And yep, here comes the sinking of his heart.

He just…

His thumb traces over the envelope, before he removes it completely from his pocket. The letter sits in there, shriveled. 

Doesn't want to think about it anymore.

It’s better this way.

Happiness is obliviousness after all, right? 

He guesses that's why he isn't happy. Because as much as he tries, he can never permanently stop thinking about it all. And it's all thanks to her. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't feel as great on this chapter, probably since I didn't spend as much time editing and reviewing as I would have liked to.. but oh well. 
> 
> FINALLY the next chapter will actually have jealous Black Hat!! (Yeah, only took me four whole chapters in to feature it. Sorry I write wayyy too much haha) And the plot will start moving along a bit more. 
> 
> Feedback fuels me :) 
> 
> Tumblr: paperhattt


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first off I am so sorry it has been more than a month since my last update!! Thank you all so much for the overwhelming support and for being so patient! :') 
> 
> Second off I have had an incredibly hard time getting this chapter started and written. I finally made myself stay up tonight because I really want it done, and it's currently 3AM. But here it finally is! 
> 
> Warning: I've barely edited, so there will be mistakes. I'm half asleep with a pretty bad headache aha so my apologies on that. This chapter is also different since it's all perspectives.. so I hope it doesn't get too confusing it's my first time trying that style. I really wanted to try so I went for it.
> 
> I might edit this up later... anyway enjoy ugh I know I'm going to regret posting this without looking at it with a clearer head aha I already am.

High pitch wavers bounce out of the lab. They bombard him like a thick cloudy swarm of bees, completely indistinguishable of where one ends and another starts. So buzzing and irritating, injecting stingers along his skin. The kind that are tiny and seem meaningless, yet get trapped under skin swiftly. And the harder they’re yanked and prodded at, the more driven into his boiling blood they get. 

Just like the woman herself. 

Even when those blasted giggles end, they still mock him by echoing in his head. They make his eardrums throb and itch with how much they grate across his them. 

He doesn't know how Flug can stand it in there, being so close to the pure obnoxiousness of her being. Of that noise! The sound of pure mockery screeching out of her mouth, with a pitch so high it should be inhumane. 

“Demencia give that back!” 

Ah, and speaking of high pitches.

Black Hat roughly exhales, halting in the hallway momentarily. Honestly, he swears he employed children. 

It’s confirmed now that the inventor’s not getting any work done, as usual. 

He growls, throwing his feet down as he rounds the corner, his shoulders already beginning to tautly creep up past his mouth. 

He doesn't even know why he is about to bother to ask… 

Oh wait, yes he does. 

He smirks, images of Flug jolting and stumbling for a desperate response to appear to be being useful stumbling into his head. No doubt he’s been dreading Black Hat’s appearance even more after everything that’s happened. He grounds his lips to smash his smirk to pieces that he swallows, trapping the jitters in his throat. His growl drives them all down into his chest, where they drown in his acid.

Black Hat yanks open the lab door, the frigid metal cooling the blood in the palms of his hands nicely. “FLUG! Do you have that invention done alrea-“ 

Demencia’s howling now. It’s the only sound— that Black Hat had ever heard— capable of muting his yelling. 

Somehow her giggling has intensified! What could be that funny?? She should be out of air! No one should be able to laugh for this long. 

“Ooohh boy!!” Her back is turned from the lab door, spine hunched over herself, eyes squeezed shut. The envelope is held down by the palm of her hand against her thigh, the ebony fabric of her leggings bleeding onto the back of the envelope from the pressure. “Does someone have a crush on Flugsy!!” She whips up, envelope now clutched between her fingers down by her side. Black Hat’s mouth is wide open, about to release more biting consonants; but the second her squeaked consonants filter through, all of his words wilt on his tongue. The shells of them, their ashy spineless corpses, soak all the saliva out of his mouth. 

“What?” It spits out in the last of the moisture he has in his mouth, fleeing in specks of green saliva that smack onto the checkered floor. It bounces along the floor, before it disintegrates, smoke churning and thickening as it rises. It clouds around his head, and annunciates his tense shoulders. 

The question was foreign, how it spit out of his mouth. And so unconsciously! He always thinks about his words before he releases them. And how the tone rolled off his tongue! He could still feel it there! It had scratched across his tongue, as if the inquiry had unscathed it’s claws, prying across his tongue and begging not to be released.

He could still see the green rolling in smoke out between his teeth. It all reeked of a dangerous desire. Something he hasn't felt in a long time, because he’s had no need for it. 

He would’ve thought about it more, if the context of Demencia’s words didn't start circling in his head. The thick emotion always weakened his senses, making everything slow down tediously in his mind… at a human speed of comprehension. 

Flug. 

Crush. 

Someone having a crush on Doctor Flug. 

It just… isn't right. 

Black Hat is gaping between the pair, yet gains no reaction from either of them. 

They haven't even noticed him yet! 

“No!” Flug’s voice breaks through the thick clouds evading off Black Hat, striding towards Demencia. In one swipe of his hand, the envelope and letter is back in his grasp. 

He crams the letter into the envelope in rapid motions, before clutching it close to him and stepping quickly backwards. “Huh?” Demencia frowns, blinking down at her empty hands. She only got through the first couple of words!

“A-and I don't even know how she got this picture of me!” Through the envelope he can feel the thick polaroid on the pads of his fingers, rising along with his heaving chest. 

Slowly, a grin cracks along the bottom of her face, glistening teeth breaking through the chapped crevices. 

And that’s when it’s ensured that Flug’s completely screwed. 

“Photo?” The vowels slowly trail off her tongue, octaves waving. She waggles her brows. 

Flug inwardly curses, realizing his mistake much too late. She hadn't seen the photo yet. Flug had just assumed, considering she grabbed the envelope! With the photo in it!

“U-uh no, there’s no photo!” He waves his hand dismissively, attempting to fight down the heightening pitch in his voice. 

He fails. 

“Who said anything abo-“ 

Demencia’s brows slant downwards, as her hands crouch beside her. She slowly heads towards him, yellow eye glowing as her pupils expand. A white glint shimmers across her irises, flashing. 

“N-no Demencia sto-!” Flug gives up before the end of his plea, knowing any form of begging is futile. Once Demencia has her mind set on something, there’s no way of talking her out of it. With one foot behind him, he twists on the pad of his foot to flee.

But by then, it’s way too late. 

Demencia leaps onto Flug’s back, nearly driving him onto the floor. She wraps her arms around his neck as her thighs bite into his waist. 

Flug squeals, stuttering out her name. Demencia ignores his protests, releasing one of her hands off his neck. Her forearm digs into Flug’s adam apple, forcing his head backwards. Flug gags, whipping his head around wildly, watching as Demencia’s other arm paws at the envelope Flug is still clutching to his chest. 

Demencia’s arm digs further into Flug’s neck, knees hiking up his sides to steady herself. 

He’s loosing air. 

The chiffon tips of her sneakers punch into his ribs, and from the force Flug’s legs wobble. 

His knee caps slam onto the ground, Demencia’s weight on his back squashing his chest onto the dusty checkered marble. Flug screeches. She sits on top of his back, snorting as he blindly kicks wildly at her back. She’s laughing way too hard for the pain in her spine to register. 

Black Hat is about to explode at their pitiful display, when Flug manages to roll on his side, successfully throwing Demencia off him. 

He crawls away from her, letter still clutched to his chest he surges up. “Ha ha!” He holds the envelope up, whipping around. The laughter dies in his throat, choking him, the second his eyes meet Black Hat’s.  
His shoulders drop, before shooting back up to his ears. 

“S-sir?!”

Black Hat’s frown wilts, eye widening.

Pink envelope. 

What? What is thi- no.

No way. 

He stares at it, hanging between Flug’s ivory digits. 

He inhales, eye slipping shut. 

Peppermint hits him. 

And, not for the first time, does the scent make the middle of his face cringe and his organs tense, wanting to snap out and attack.

Crisp memories of her flicker in, snapshots of her face and motions. 

Elvira.

His thought process is rushing in so fast that it’s hard for him to focus on everything. 

Demencia smirks, plucking the envelope from Flug’s hand. The doctor whose still gaping at his boss.  
Flug’s hand stays risen, grasping at nothing.

Snickering, she tears the envelope open once more. She snatches the photo, twisting it around. 

Her laughter dies, further adding tension to the silence. “Aw man, what?! I thought it was gonna be something sexy.” The second the last word slips out she wants to swallow it back, because only then does she remember whose in that circumstance. Elvira. 

She gags. 

She has seen enough of Elvira to last a life time. Demencia doesn't even have to imagine what’s left of what little she hasn't been exposed to. 

Flug on the other hand, well… Demencia smirks once more. That would be interesting. She would kill, literally, to see what was under the inventors bag. No amount of pestering Black Hat— who she knows has seen Flug!— or Flug has gotten her any answers. 

Her eyes focus back on the bland photo. 

She frowns. But then again, Elvira shouldn't be sending photos of Flug… she should be sending one’s of herself. Or ones of them together. 

Eew no disgusting!! She shoves those images she doesn't even want to verbalize back down in the pits of her imagination, where she will, hopefully, not cross paths with it ever again. 

Yet it should be impossible… photos of her and Flug. 

She would have known if Elvira was hanging in Flug’s room. 

Flug can’t sneak anything past her!She glances down at the envelope. Well… 

Whatever this doesn't count! Black Hat apparently doesn't seem to know about it either. And nothing gets past him. 

She glances at him for a conformation. His sable top lip bores into his bottom one, yanking it down and drooping his face. His midnight brows dip down between his monocle and sable ever so darkening eye. He’s so cute when he’s mad! Demencia grins, mute squealing bubbling in her throat like one of her favorite soda’s.

Yup, he definitely doesn't know. He’s pissed. 

Elvira’s just too smart to get caught. Because if it were just Flug, then both her and Black Hat would have known the second this all happened. 

But Elvira being in his room? How could she have not seen it?! She peers back down at the photo, squinting at it. The angle this was taken at, there’s no way Elvira was there in person… it seems to have been zoomed in on a bit, the edges are a tad bit blurred. She can see the pixelation! She rolls her lips. “Psh, amateur.” she mumbles. 

She would have really have thought Elvira would have more high tech equipment than this. And this is on a polaroid! Who even uses those anymore?

Admittedly, Demencia feels a lot better. A surge passes through her that brings her shoulders up higher, along with a smirk on her face.Demencia has way better pictures of Black Hat! And he doesn't pick up on photographs that well. Something having to do with, well, whatever he is. A shame, really. They can never capture his true beauty. 

Huffing, she tosses the photo. It flutters downwards, Flug leaping to scoop it up. As if it were really something humiliating, something explicit. His brows are raised high, hands trembling and fingers stumbling to grip the photo correctly. 

Black Hat swoops over, looming over Flug. “Let me see that!” He rips it out of his hands, glowering at it. Like every statement with him it’s never a suggestion, it’s a demand. 

“So, how’s she getting in your room Flug bug? You let her set up a camera in there?” Demencia rests her elbow onto a lab table, smirking as she watches the doctor try so hard to compose himself. 

Flug splutters, turning his attention to Demencia’s ragged leggings to avoid Black Hat’s staring. He doesn't want to know what his reaction is going to be. Most likely nonchalantness at the whole situation, and that makes him feel a pang in his hammering chest he doesn't want to confront right now. A reminder that Black Hat wouldn't care about the trauma he’s been through, instead, he would definitely thrive off it. 

“I-I don’t know!” The negative thoughts fuel tension in his bones. He squares his shoulders, making all the tension physically and mentally directed at Demencia now. She can’t hurt him. “And I just said that if you were listening to me!” He narrows his eyes at her, clenching his fists. He can feel the hiccuping blood ramming against his knuckles, numbing his fingers. 

He focuses on the negativity, anything to escape the nerves that are consuming the parts of him his irritation hasn't touched. Anything to shut up the thoughts of how much Black Hat has to be thinking he’s pathetic right now. He just admitted she’s already one up on him about not knowing how she gets the photos; and now he’s definitely going to know about the letters! About their contents, and what has been going on all this time. He knows that there aren't blueprints anymore. That Flug has, technically, been lying to him this whole time! 

The letter that is still clasped in Demencia’s left hand!

His fingers fall, blood rushing back in. Filling him with more of the briskness, of his cells that have fallen asleep. The point where the lack of blood is painful.

Wonderful. If he leaps for her again, Black Hat will intervene and then get it. And Flug will do anything in his power to keep his boss away from that letter. It’s not too late yet. 

He’ll just have to wait until, maybe, he can slip it out of Demencia’s hands and destroy it; and all before she catches up to what’s happening. 

While the doctor is staring at the envelope, Black Hat’s eye is glued on the photo. He’s taking every pixel into account, directing the lame object for everything it is worth. Any indication to know how she’s getting off-guard pictures of his doctor. The photo obviously wasn’t taken from a polaroid. She takes them digitally, and then prints them out on polaroid film. 

But why go through all that trouble? 

Black Hat idly twists the photo between his fingers, tired of looking at Flug calmness on the front of the photograph. It’s rare, and fills him with that feeling he doesn't like to let his body mingle with. It does bad things to him. It softens everything. 

Although he’s wearing a bag, likewise to how he does constantly in real life, he doesn’t have to see his face to know his expressions. His eyes give it all away; after all they are the windows to the soul, or so he’s heard. That’s one of the many phrases humans continuously spit out.

Once the photo turns back around, he halts his motions. By the angle it was captured from, the camera must have been near the top of his door. That would be the right amount of her having to zoom in where it would be a bit noticeable that she has done so, but not to the point where the image becomes blurry. 

But why him watering flowers? Perhaps because it’s a moment of intimacy, a time where the doctor isn't tense. Something private in his own courters, where he thinks he is alone and can let loose. 

Looking at it that way, it seems scandalous. 

Of course in reality, it’s just a photo of Flug watering flowers. But this is Elvira. 

And Elvira is far from an average person. This would be a way to cleverly convey that she has seen him, so to speak, with his mask off. All his walls down. And in a way without being so boring and dull with going about it the thoughtless normal way. 

And Flug has held onto this, right in his pocket in perfect condition! Just like everything else that he cares about, in prestigious order. The last time Elvira was around was weeks ago, so he’s taken a lot of effort in hiding this for so long.

How has he missed this? How could he be so blind? 

This whole time right in the doctor’s pocket!

No. 

This whole time right in his own hands!

They’ve been playing him! 

His chest tightens, bones tightening and embracing one another to the point of cracking. 

He’s been passing Flug her notes this whole time. Her intimate pictures! 

They were never blue prints! His upper lip hikes up, jagged teeth slipping through. 

Flug lied to him! 

A heat wave of pure ebony consumes his shoulders and head, darkening the edge of his vision.

Flug never lies to him! He can’t, because Black Hat will know if he does!

Well, he’s supposed to know. 

The photo in his hand disintegrates, ash crawling between his fingers. 

A whimper breaks through the room. 

Black Hat doesn't even look at him. 

Good, he hopes he’s upset! And that this is far from the last time this is going to occur! He’s going to find all the pictures and notes she’s given him and burn them with his own hands! So that there’s no way Flug can piece them back together. 

He bets he’s been cradling them in his sleep. Simpering and ripping those little pale envelopes open the moment Black Hat left the lab. Wasting precious working time in drooling over crafted notes by… that women of all people! That whore! Honestly, Black Hat thought Flug had better tastes than that! He thought Flug was better than this! He’s being like, well, every other man in the universe for falling for her. Black Hat swore he had better standards, especially as to going for someone so easy! Where’s the challenge with her? She throws all that she has out there, right on display. Where’s the fun in that? He smirks, but it’s tense. All the mirth pumped out of his lips, leaving them cracked and strained. Dehydrated. 

Oh yeah. He’s never going to give Flug another one of her envelopes again.

And if she dares to hand him another one, oh, after he reads it he’ll make her swallow her own words. 

“Well, when people are in love~” Demencia’s singing breaks them both out of their thoughts, the word stomping and grinding against their faces. Flug’s nose scrunches, as Black Hat’s eye twitches. His monocle dangerously close to cracking from the sheer pitch of her note. 

“What have I told you about spewing that word about?!” Blegh! Love! That’s all he needs to hear, he feels sick enough. 

Meanwhile, Flug cringes because he knows exactly where Demencia’s thoughts are racing, spiraling out of control into the land of jumping straight into assumptions. Her loving him. 

“L-love?!” The doctor finally manages to speak a small fraction of how he’s feeling, but it doesn't at all convey it enough for him. 

Him and his boss shudder, and both for almost the same reason. 

Flug because he knows love is far for what she feels for him, and if she did feel love than that would be somehow even more disturbing, probably. 

Black Hat for the concept of someone else, especially someone as irritating as Elvira, being romantically involved with Flug. It’s one thing to be dating, but another to say that you love that person!

That’s just, unacceptable. 

He… he forbids it!

This has clearly been going on long enough. 

Demencia shrugs, “Her words, not mine.” 

Scratch everything. He never thought Elvira would decline this low either! What a waste of vileness. Of brilliantness!

But most of all, Black Hat believed she was a bit smarter than to do such a thing. Falling for someone that clearly already belongs to someone else. 

Flug is his. 

Sure, he’s not off spewing the l word to him; or taking creepy photos of him, and sending him sappy notes. But he doesn't need to do all that, because Flug is already his. Even if it is in a more platonic way. 

At least she is clever enough to not sneak into the house with him. 

But even then, how is she managing to get a camera into the place? All without him, 5.0.5, and Demencia being aware of it! It’s certainly not Flug’s doing.

His mind is whirling backwards, replaying every snippet of memories he has witnessed between his scientist and her. Searching through all their interactions for anything he has missed, a camera or some device. 

He gags when all that fills his mind are images that have been blurred for so long, and are just now coming into focus. How hasn't he seen it?! Why didn't he comprehend it at those times? He’s seen her sprawled all over him before! Only now does he fully recall it all. Strangely, her actions never really filtered in. Like background noise, it’s something he knew was occurring, but didn't focus on. 

The touching. 

All the touching. 

Her nails, raking across his shoulders. And the way she leaned over him, chest directly against his back, breathing onto his neck. 

“She must plant something on you, some sort of small camera.” He turns to face Flug, who jolts at being addressed. “Since she’s always hanging all over you.” He spits it out, beginning to strut towards Flug. He grips the lapels of his coat, yanking him into himself. He drags Flug’s chest up his own, holding him at eye level. The doctor’s chest is heaving against his own, his frail heart smacking him. Black Hat peers down at his clothes, shoving his shoulders to hold him far enough away to lug at the coat away from his trembling body. 

Nothing there. Just blinding prestigious chiffon. 

He pulls his shirt collar away from him, choking him. The doctor gags, dangling slightly, hands fisted. Sweat bleeds through his bag as his pupils shrink, darting around for any sort of escape. 

For once Black Hat isn't focused on his doctor’s expression, instead he is yanking at his shirt. The cobalt seams hugging each other, struggling to not rip under Black Hat’s claws. 

He’s searching for anything that resembles a spy camera. It would be the only logical way; because she only ever goes in the lab, and walks through the front entrance. It would have to be on his clothes, she never goes anywhere near Flug’s room. 

Flug’s room! 

He releases his hold on Flug abruptly, shoving him backwards. His arms shoot out, barely catching himself before he falls.

“Or there’s some in your room, on stuff that you’ve already worn.” His shadow’s silhouette swoops from the heels of his feet into a thinner slimmer in front of him, and he drops down into it. As he falls he sees Flug’s fingers itch out to grab him, but his wrist holds him back. He stammers of pleas, vowels tripping over themselves in his constricting throat. But none of them manage to crawl out of his mouth. 

Tch, pathetic. 

Charcoal momentarily scratches across Black Hat’s vision, and the next fraction of a second he’s standing in Flug’s room. 

Readjusting his trench coat around him, he slowly stalks around Flug’s room. The heels of his shoes radiates around him, bouncing off the shoe box of the doctor’s room. This only lasts two steps, until he’s stomping against a shaggy crimson carpet. 

It’s so small in here. How does he breathe in such a confined space? Black Hat can feel the humidity from all the air being so crammed together. 

He steps around his full sized bed, the side of his foot almost ramming into it as he heads towards the back of Flug’s ivory door first. 

On the back hangs a small coat racket, littered with coats. He rips at all the identical chiffon coats, shredding them apart as his eye scans for any signs of her. Any small device, any smearing of her nail polish. Any markings from her, any more of that horrible peppermint. 

How does Flug deal with that? It’s absolutely nauseating; how does he not get headaches from it? 

The smell probably beings him comfort. Humans like that, familiar smells that they associate with their loved ones! Gah!

His nails shred through the fabric, but not even the fabric clinging under his nails or the sharp sounds of clothes ripping are enough to calm him. Not enough to get through to him anymore. 

He keeps ripping at the seemingly endless amount of coats. How many lab coats does one scientist need?? 

Thick sea foam green is crawling off his bottom lip, splattering onto the flying fabric. He can’t stop tearing. The thoughts, memories, they won’t stop! Reminders of her lingering all over him, draping herself over him just like one of these stupid jackets! Stupid thin and breakable, they hardly offer any protection! The fabric is hardly giving up a fight, like the man who wears them himself. 

Was it this easy for her to win him over? 

Does she have him so pliable, so easy to damage and tear, as well? 

No! 

His hands are slowing, no longer an indistinguishable blur of ebony. 

He should be asking that question reversed. It should be how he got her… but…

Panting, chest heaving, he stares down at the remains of shredded fabric on the floor. 

Well, he knows the truth; Flug is far more superior than her. To both him, and to the world when physical appearance is taken fully out of account. 

What’s more important now, is that there is nothing. 

Absolutely nothing. 

No envelopes in his pockets, or devices on the coat’s shoulders. 

No trace of her. 

Growling he stalks over to his pale silver dresser. He wrenches it open, working at it for several seconds because the wood is somehow getting trapped. He isn't sure if the drawer is overfilled, or if the paint is newer or too thick. All he knows, as he wrestles with it, is that it is super agitating. 

Stupid thing! Does Flug ever open these?! Once the bloody thing finally comes free he throws the drawer into the wall, hard, watching the wood crack. It topples over to its side, the neatly folded jeans inside flopping out. They’re untangled, yet the harsh crevices of their fold lines remain on them. 

There can’t be anything on his jeans, she doesn't touch him down there. 

She better not. 

His frown drags up into his upper lip, the blood thickening in his wrists. 

Just the mere thought of them together like that. 

His fingers twitch out, wrapping to dig his nails deeper into the palms of his hands. 

Oh if Flug is out messing around when he’s supposed to be doing errands… 

He’s never letting Flug out of the house again. 

He storms over to the chipped drawer, throwing all of the pants out. Once they’re on the crimson fluffy carpet, he searches them. Inhaling them to check for peppermint, zooming his focus in on every seam for any disorientations in color, and checking for scratches of any kind. 

He swears if he finds anything on his pants, a single trace of her, he’s going to kill her. 

He’s going to murder her. Paint the walls with her blood and make her beg for her useless life, taking back every flowery word she’s addressed towards HIS doctor!

His back is straining, tentacles kicking and shoving against his spine. Curling and torrid, begging to be released to wrap around something.

Black Hat’s going to torture her, making it clear that Flug only belongs to one person. Him. And by the end of it all, once she admits that and believes it, he will kill her for being stupid enough to even try to take him away! 

Black Hat pauses, the pair of Flug’s jeans melting into his palms. 

Wait, no. 

He lowers the soggy jeans, staring down at them. They lay limp in his lap, button staring up at him.

He exhales roughly. He’s going to kill Flug. Not her. 

Because Flug is an employee, not her. And him being out with her is him wasting valuable work time, and for even daring to like her and date her and…

He tosses the jeans back into the drawer, the flames inside fully wilted to a crisp stream. 

Who is he kidding? 

He’s more mad at her than him, and by a long shot. 

He usually feels all anger towards Flug in every situation, so it’s completely foreign to him to not feel the most livid towards his scientist this time. 

But he knows why. 

He just doesn't want to admit it right now, even though he has before. Countless times. 

But, oh yeah, he knows the reason. He knew it the second the heated sparks flickered in his knuckles. 

Typically he turns to Flug out of anger because, not only is it fun to watch him squirm, but also because he infuriates him to no end just by existing. By always being in his head, and for somehow always completing everything! Sure not everything’s correct, but he meets impossible deadlines, and his inventions still do something. 

He doesn't want Flug around, yet he does at the same time. 

Because even when he isn't physically in front of him, he still annoys him. Filling him with suffocation and warmth that’s too close to a burning sensation. Words sprinting across his mind that he bans himself from thinking, but they always arise when he sees him and at thoughts of him.

He doesn't like him because he defeated him. He defeated all that he stands for, and all that he is supposed to be. Evil, cold, the wonderful list of sinful adjectives goes on. 

This is stuff he has come to terms with long ago. It doesn't mean it doesn't still aggravate him sometimes though. Especially during rare times like these when his Flug feelings morph into even more complex emotions. Now the doctor’s got him feeling jealousy of all things! Black Hat, jealous! 

And of Elvira of all people. 

That’s what’s really bothering him. That Flug has so much control over his emotions, that he’s managed to arouse envy over someone like her! 

And that Flug would choose her over him. 

Yet he’s still more mad at her, because the jealousy triumphs his irritation towards Flug. 

Did he think she was more evil than him? With better looks and-

He gets up, snarling at himself. He’s behaving just as a human would, letting these dumb emotions take over his body. Distract him from everything that really matters. 

Enough self-pity. 

If Flug wants to frolic all over that bloody whore than that’s his business. Besides he could have fun trying when Black Hat cuts off all his communication from her, along with the rest of the outside world! 

He won’t be deceived again. 

He’s going to find that camera. Find all the other little methods she’s using to monitor and secretly contact him. 

She thinks she has the right to monitor him? 

He hopes she sees him destroying everything.

Slipping open Flug’s closet, he rams his shirts by the hanger back one by one. The metal screeches, a symphony to Black Hat. 

All his shirts are the same as well, with that dumb little broken plane on the front of it. Why doesn't he own anything else?? He rams the closet shut. All his shirts are clean. 

Tossing open Flug’s bedside drawer, the clock and lamp rattle on the top of it. The first drawer has some folded shirts, and the second…

He pauses, hand frozen on the handle of the ebony drawer. 

Shit. 

Why does he have to go off and do stuff like this? 

He makes him so mad at him, and then… 

Standing straight in orderly fashions are little modeled planes, all polished and clear of dust. Evidence that they are clearly touched often, and well taken care of. 

Stupid little things. 

He’s a stupid little thing. 

Of course he keeps modeled planes hidden in his bedside drawer. As if they’re some dirty little secret! 

Suddenly he’s snickering, head hanging down as he stares down at all the planes. So many planes, it’s honestly obnoxious. 

The warm feeling is back, worse than it has ever been before. It’s suffocating, enclosing around his bones and making them vibrate. His limbs curled up inside his body have gone slack, along with his hidden mouths intertwined inside of him. All his hidden eyes rolling, pupils expanding. Everything’s rocking inside him, shaking and he feels sick. Like he could vomit out everything. He wants to, just to dissect and settle it all. Rearrange everything, just back to being still! His organs are ramming against his chest, mouth empty of saliva. He glances down at his hands. He’s shaking! Him, Black Hat, trembling! All at the hands of some weak human! 

He wants to stop feeling. It’s all foreign, all so much. Too much. 

All because of him. 

All over these stupid planes! 

He grips one, barely sparing it a glance. He can’t focus, all he knows is that it’s an olive green. Something in white writing sprawled across the side, most likely some stupid pun. 

Hurling it backwards, he doesn't even aim. Just somewhere in the direction of a wall, where he can hear it crash. 

He hoists his arm forwards. 

But…

The plane won’t leave his hands! 

Damn it. He can’t let it go. 

His shoulders drop. 

The plane sits still in his hands, propeller slowly twirling from the force of his almost throw. 

He has it bad. A lot worse than he originally thought. It’s already ventured far into dangerous territory.  
It really is true what humans say, for once. It really is blinding. 

He straightens, setting the plane softly besides the others. Back in the exact position it was in, stopping the propellers motions with the pad of his finger. Cautiously shutting the drawer as if to not disturb the planes, he rises. 

Everything around him, everything he tampered with, is swallowed by shadows. He snaps his fingers, and everything jolts back into place. Undisturbed, as if he was never here. 

A small part of him is almost tempted to finish what he almost started. To shatter his precious planes and leave them that way. Just to give Flug a measly ounce of what he’s feeling. 

But he silences that side with the comfort that soon enough those planes are going to be all Flug has to turn to for comfort again. 

Black Hat’s lips twitch, curling. 

He can’t completely deprive his doctor, after all. 

————————————---------------------------

Flug groans, Dementia and him staring at the smoke trail left behind where Black Hat once was. 

Wonderful. Without a doubt Black Hat’s tearing up his room; or that is, what little of it there is. 

Well, 5.0.5 will clean it. 

Demencia twiddles with the envelope in her hands, bringing it back up to slowly inch the crumbled letter back out. 

Some of the flower petals fall and scratch against her fingers. They’re dehydrated and burnt, crumbling the moment they hit the floor. She brushes them aside with the pad of her sneaker, some of the petals catching under her shoe and grounding down to jagged dust. 

“Man you’re lucky, I wish I had an admirer.” She sighs, peering up at Flug through her dark lashes.  
All she receives back is a glare. 

She continues, ignoring it. “I mean, how’d you score her?” Dementia stresses the last word, images of Elvira flashing in her mind. 

Elvira is beautiful, confident, and super evil. 

Flug, well… he doesn't even show his face. And all he does is make the inventions. Sure he’s evil, he can fight and fend for himself, and thinks of great invention ideas and makes them possible…

But he still somehow doesn't match her. Maybe it isn't about skills, but more about personality? She’s too out there and wild, and not a normal person. There’s something… off about her. They’re just, not right. 

It’s like putting mustard on chocolate ice-cream, or broccoli in cake. She can’t completely explain why, it just puts a bad taste in her mouth, but all she knows is that she doesn't like it. It’s wrong. 

But regardless of what she thinks, they’re a couple. 

A disgusting couple. That will hopefully break up soon. Or maybe… they won’t. Elvira’s crafting love notes and poetry, and went through all the trouble to be able to see Flug more. 

Her heart halts, shoulders slumping. 

She’s not behaving like herself. Maybe her evil-self, perhaps it’s all just a front to be taken more seriously. All a mask, that works brilliantly. If that’s the case then, well, her and Flug could work. 

Maybe she doesn't know who Elvira is at all; and was wrong all this time. 

It all makes perfect sense. 

Oh no. 

That means Flug has already found someone! Who knows how long this has been going on! Demencia can’t remember when Elvira started coming around. She’s always been there!They’ve probably been dating for years! They’re most likely already ready to move on to the next steps, like moving in together or marriage. 

“Wait! You’re not gonna leave us, like move out of the house, right?” 

Flug can’t! She needs him here. 

5.0.5 creeps closer. He had been hovering by the chalk board, observing everything and cautiously staying out of the way from all the tension he was feeling in the lab. But at Demencia’s distress, and Black Hat’s violence no longer present, he steps up to the plate. Especially at hearing Flug leaving. 

Demencia turns, staring at 5.0.5 who lingers behind her. His face twisted in concern. 

They need him here! 

Who else can she annoy? Who will put up a fight and entertain her?

“Aroo?” 5.0.5 turns to Demencia, his question clear to her. Why would Flug move out? 

Dementia shrugs, attempting to play it off cool. She can’t beg him to stay, or else it might not work. She can’t look too desperate. “Well, they’re eventually gonna move in together. And come on, she’s not gonna wanna live here.” With all of us. She leaves that part out. 

It’s true. Flug will have to move out if he wants to stay with her. 

It’s them, or her. 

Because no way will someone like Elvira move in with people like them. 

Even if she is more romantic with Flug, she can’t be that different than what she portrays herself to be. 

And would Black Hat even let her? He hardly tolerates everyone who lives in his house already. 

5.0.5 breaks down, sobbing big fat tears. 

Stupid bear he’s going to ruin everything!Flug gasps, waving his arms. “N-no no! I’m not moving out!” His brows are arched, echoing his confusion and startlement as he reaches out, grasping 5.0.5’s hand. He squeezes it, eyes squinting. Offering 5.0.5 a comforting smile.

5.0.5 sniffels, calming. 

“That’s right you're not, you’re under a contract.” Black Hat struts back into the room, glowering at Flug. 

Demencia exhales, seeing 5.0.5’s shoulders slump beside her as well. What a relief. Flug can’t ever leave. She grins, and Flug drops his hand out of 5.0.5’s. 

His smile is long gone now. Oh how he loves to be reminded that he is literally bound here, stuck in this place for the rest of his days. 

“There’s nothing in your room.” Black Hat pauses, stepping closer to Flug. “And I mean nothing,” Black Hat clarifies, “it’s so bare,” he sneers, yet is so thankful now to be able to breathe in cooler air. 

No wonder Flug spends all his time in here. 

“I’ll never understand how you live in there.” Black Hat shakes his head, staring down at his doctor. 

Flug deadpans. “I don’t.” 

He doesn't live anywhere in here. His life ended the moment he signed the contract. It was that, or immediate death. Both the same thing, basically, just one more drawn out than the other. But the weak part of him was too scared to die quick. Every now and then he feels like a fool for choosing the first option. 

Black Hat starts to walk away, done for the day with all this. All he wanted was one simple invention. Between three people living with him, one of them always has to screw things up. 

Flug inches towards Black Hat, the one question still stuck in his head like a broken record. He has to get an answer to this question. He won’t be able to sleep without knowing. He’s so tired of not knowing! Black Hat found nothing, but maybe he still knows. He’s smart. 

“I-if there are no cameras, sir, then, well,” Black Hat pauses, Flug taking a full step towards him, head tilted. “how is she getting pictures of me?” 

Black Hat scoffs, arms itching to cross across his chest. He fights them down. ”Obviously with a camera of sorts. Whatever she’s using, it’s gone now.”

“B-but-“ 

“This is between you and her! If she’s overstepping boundaries and you two are having issues,” his mind flashes back to when Flug had fled the room from her the last time she was here. But he still has the note, so clearly they aren't having detrimental issues. Well, they soon will be! “then I’m not the person to be talking to.” He spits out, tongue hissing out. 

“W-what?” Flug blinks, but Black Hat doesn't answer him. His shoulders twist sharply around as he storms off. 

Flug groans, staring up at the ceiling momentarily. 

Behind him the crinkling of an envelope rings out. 

Oh great. She still has the letter. 

A small part of him wants to let her read it. Just to have someone to confide in. 

But she’s not the right person to turn to. She’ll tell Black Hat, even if she does do it for what she thinks are the right reasons. 

Black Hat can’t know the truth. 

Leaning across the table, he swipes up a ray. He keeps this one handy since it moves objects. He typically uses it to hold Demencia at bay away from his work station. 

In one swift motion he charges it, twisting around and shooting it. Tangerine rays spiral out, swallowing the envelope, and in the next second it’s flying into his hands. 

Demencia frowns. “Aw come on, that’s a cheap move and you know it!” 

He spins the ray idly in his hand, other hand reaching behind him for the bunsen burner. “We’re evil, cheap moves are our signature ones.” He shrugs at her, grinning. 

She sticks her tongue out at him, turning her back to skip out of the lab. 

Flug sighs, igniting the burner and jabbing the envelope underneath it with his gloved hands. He’s too lazy to use the tongs, he just wants it gone already.

He slides the ray across the table, staring at the flames munching at the corners of the envelope.

“Whoa!” 

Flug’s shoulders leap. 

Damn it he swore she left! 

Whenever he lights a fire he swears she hears it— even if she’s across the house— and comes running. 

Grinning, she leaps, hovering right behind Flug. Her chest is right against his spine, elbows digging into his shoulders. He jostles his shoulders, trying to get her off, but it only serves to make her elbows dig deeper and slide into his collar bones. He hisses, groaning. 

He should've kept hold on the ray. 

“You burn her love poems? Harshhh.” She giggles, dragging out the last word. 

Flug elbows her in her side, lightly, with his empty hand, before fully shoving her away when she doesn't even jostle. 

He speed walks to the sink, flaming envelope far in his outstretched hand. He flips on the sink, drawing the paper immediately. 

“You coulda kept it hidden,” She shrugs, before simpering, “or do you have it memorized?” She snickers, but grows somber instantly when Flug stiffens slightly. 

Maybe at the thought of keeping it and someone finding it? 

She shrugs, walking over to him again. 

He’s watching the remains of the envelope claw at the sides of the sink, fighting with all its remaining strength to not go down the drain. They eventually wither away under the pressure of the water. Thinking about no matter how much of the evidence is gone, how faded and washed away the words are, that they will never really leave him. Not mentally, anyway. With luck he will forget the specifics someday, but the main idea always remains. And the main idea is the most crucial part. 

She notices that there’s a far away look in his eyes, and his pupils look so waxy. 

She isn't sure why he looks so haunted, there’s too many possibilities going through her mind. She almost feels responsible, and bad for looking at the envelope now. 

But, well, he should’ve told her! Or not have left it in such an obvious place, because of course she was going to look at it! 

Perhaps him and Elvira are just going through hard times, maybe the letter is old? 

That’s the option she’s hoping it is. Because she’s just not right for him! She knows it. 

Flug’s hands are biting into the silver counter, the whispers of smoke traveling up his bag as he continues to blankly stare down at the sink. 

“But well,” Dementia hesitates. And she never hesitates. 

That’s enough to bring Flug out of his thoughts. He turns, lifting his hands off the sink. As he switches the sink off she catches sight of the water droplets sinking through his gloves, from the wet counter. 

Exhaling roughly she grounds herself. Something is screaming at her to say this, so she’s going to. “Flug I think you can do better.” 

He stills, staring at her. 

Demencia shrugs, “She's psychotic, and not in the good and cool way.” 

That’s the answer she was looking for. Or one of them, anyway. For now it seems like the best option as to why she’s not a right fit for him. Being a little crazy is okay, but she’s seen the stuff Elvira does. Even if it is all an act, to be able to fathom such things! Someone like that isn't a right fit for someone like Flug. She can’t fully explain it, attempting to frustrates her to no end to try and think on a matter for so long. She just knows it. And that’s enough for her. 

Flug’s first initial reaction is to laugh at the context of her sentence. But then, he’s touched. 

Because even though they aren't dating, well, it’s sweet that she would even speak up on the matter. 

Flug knew she was crazy. But to hear it confirmed, and by Demencia of all people! 

Well, he doesn't feel as ashamed anymore. Of course he still wouldn't want Black Hat to know, but, he doesn't feel as weak. 

If Dementia could see she was psycho from only few interactions with her, then she really is. 

“Thank you.” Flug finally breathes out. He can feel his ribs cracking, expanding, finally able to embrace the crisp air for the first time in days. 

Demencia nods, offering a soft smile before she bounded out of the lab. 

Flug would have genuinely hugged her, but, it was more of a 5.0.5 thing to do around here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to have another section for this chapter, so that's why I added 7 chapters instead of my original 6. The next chapter should be the shortest of them all, and then chapter 6 I'm SO EXCITED OMG IT'S GONNA GET GOOD FINALLY haha. 
> 
> Please be easy on me lol I am not very proud of this one and wish I spent A LOT more time on it, but I want it out so bad for you all I just said oh well and hit publish haha. 
> 
> My tumblr: paperhattt


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty short compared to my other chapters, but I really wanted to post something because of how long it has been since I last updated this. This was originally going to be the beginning of chapter 5, but now I'm just going to put this up on its own, so there will be 8 chapters now. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is still following this story, and for your patience. I've been in a bit of a slump, and am currently pulling myself out of it. 
> 
> Here's a mini Christmas gift :) Hopefully the next chapter will be out within the next week. I'm editing it at the moment, and have more than half of it done, so fingers crossed!!

Questions claw at his mind, smashing against each other and stuffing his head. They pour out of his ears, numbing his hearing and contributing further to the thrumming in his temples.

Everything around him is swamped in rich emerald, and darkening in deeper hues of green at the edges of his vision. 

He can’t stop any of it no matter how hard he tries! The doctor, Elvira, the questions, all the scenarios! They’re all brewing into a concoction of emotions resulting in thick envy. Each thought makes the wad of saliva launched in his throat even stickier, and no amount of coughing will clear it out. It all leaves his limbs scrambling and shaky, unaware of what to do with themselves. 

He has to keep moving. 

His last bit of clarity, wound up in his crammed mind, keeps screaming that moving will release some of the tightness that's stretching across the surface of his skin. 

It’s a lie. 

Each tap of his foot against the marble soot floor of his office, nor stab of his drumming fingers across his equally marble desk, offers any relief. 

It doesn’t stop him from continuing to twitch, though. 

He just can’t stop thinking about it all! 

How did he not see the signs? How has Flug kept something so massive from him?! Flug! The human embodiment of nerves! He can’t do anything right in front of him because he makes the doctor so nervous! 

Or, that’s what he thought he did. Who knows now with Flug being able to pull this all off! 

Is Flug even afraid of him? 

He can’t be that good of an actor! 

Black Hat digs the ends of his claws onto the surface of his temples, his elbows scraping across the counter. 

He grinds his fangs together, his eye squeezing shut. The pounding won’t stop; his head is too heavy! 

Why did he choose her? Why would he take the risk?! 

With each prodding inquiry arrives something far worse, that fuels the tangle of emotions that is tying his chest into knots. A barbed-wire web that is cutting into his ribs, forcing them all closer together. 

It's all the scenarios. 

Stupid thoughts of Elvira ending things between Flug and her. His conscious streaming together this concept based on watered-down events that he has hardly any context behind! Yet he convinces himself it is all plausible. All drawn off the observation from how quickly Flug fled the last time before she came into the lab. 

He whips his head to the right to try and force the idiotic thoughts out of his head, this only serves to erupt more sharp tension in his head. He gnarls, slamming his fists down onto his desk. He can hardly hear the bam echoing off the charcoal walls, yet he can feel the pound thrumming in his knuckles and shooting up his veins. His arms are shaking now, veins smacking against the inside of his arms. 

It doesn't matter if they are fighting! He’s going to be the one to break things off. Black Hat bites down, ending the grounding motion he’s been unconsciously doing, and grins around his jagged teeth. 

He’s the one in control now, back to how everything should be. 

He tries to bring that fact to the front of his head. He’s sick of the nagging that is eating away at his brain cells, plummeting him into deeper madness.

With repeating that simple fact logic begins to sweep out the crumbled up emotions in his head. 

This all won’t matter soon. There will be nothing to feel envious over when he takes Flug back.

That's what he tells himself, anyway. 

But it does not make his fists unclench, nor the foggy emerald in the room fade away. 

He’s still envious of what they did have. 

No… he’s more envious of the fact that Flug sought her out and went after a full blown relationship, kept the notes from her, took all the risks; that this is all clear evidence of him truly caring about her. 

And he hates that! 

Flug avoids any path of getting into trouble with Black Hat when at all possible! That’s why this makes no sense to him! The doctor must really think Black Hat’s stupid when it comes to these matters. 

Well, he can’t wait to see the look on his face when he reveals that he’s known everything, and has this whole time. That he waited until the brink of the moment when Flug really loves her to snatch her away! 

Of course, that’s a lie.. Black Hat’s shoulders slump, his gaping grin wilting. His lips slink back down over his teeth. 

But Flug has to think this all to avoid these complications occurring in the future. He can’t know that he got one over on Black Hat! 

Ohh, Flug is going to have a heart attack. 

The smirk is back, breaking at the edges of his mouth. His fangs to pop out, glistening in saliva. He’ll just revive him, and then give him another one. 

Resting the palms of his hands onto the edge of his desk, he swiftly kicks himself away from it. His armchair slides back, and he rises. With long strides he is quickly out of his office, spine tall and shoulders drawn back. 

Loosing Elvira as a customer he could care less about. Black Hat has more than enough cliental. Her mediocre ideas are not worth keeping if it means he will loose Flug. His scientist can still create devices without her blueprints. 

Besides, Black Hat can create better concepts than her in a dreamless sleep!

He sharply rounds the corner of the hall, putting more pressure into his stomps. The ache in the back of his calfs is worth it. He hopes the doctor can hear him! So his heart can start leaping and attempting to send scrambled signals to his brain. His mind will attempt to prepare himself for the fear to come. Humans never learn that it’s not possible to get ready for an encounter with Black Hat. Flug will remain a jittery mess of purely limbs, lips dancing around stutters of broken and pointless words. 

Although he likes to catch him off guard occasionally, announcing his arrival secretly is another thing that warrants captivating responses from the doctor. It’s a great way to fully throttle each individual nerve of his. Eventually sending them shooting off like a shaken can of soda, left to bubble up and erupt in his organs. 

“DOCTOR FLUG!” The screech is out before Black Hat bangs the steel lab door into the lab’s dented walls. 

And what further fuels the fire kicking his chest is the sight of Flug not doing his work! 

He’s slumped over his work station, bag wrinkling around the outline of his smushed cheek. Drool has stained the bottom of his bag, darkening it to a mocha brown color. 

His head is adjusted on his arms that are crossed together like a pillow. His goggles are completely off, strewn beside his arm.

His lab coat is scrunched and huddled around his shoulders, and he is dangerously close to falling off the stool he is on with how far his back is bended forwards. 

The sight should be disgusting, but… 

How can he stay mad at him when he looks like that? 

It’s not fair! He can’t see his face, but just by the lids of his eyes he knows his slacked expression is cute. 

Gah cute! A common adjective he uses around the scientist. Something that he never associates with anything, not even 5.0.5! An animal that he’s even heard so-called villains coo at. 

His weight shifts to the pads of his feet, and he treads softly over to Flug. The inventor doesn't snore, or really make any noise other than steady breathing. 

Although he has his lab coat hugged tighter around him now, he still trembles slightly. 

An average human wouldn't be able to pick up on this, but just from looking at the barely visible hair standing on the back of his neck Black Hat knows he his skin is practically ice. 

The lab’s always cold. Partially because Flug likes it that way, but mainly because it ensures that the doctor will stay awake. It is supposed to ensure that, anyway. Clearly it doesn't work. 

Black Hat rests his hand on Flug’s shoulder. He can’t sleep like this, he’ll wake up with a neck cramp. 

“Flug.” He, admittedly, speaks softer than he usually would. This, of course, defeats the purpose of getting the doctor to wake up. 

The doctor, unsurprisingly, doesn't shift. 

Roughly exhaling, he glances around for any sight of the bear or the psychotic fangirl. Down the halls he hears no footsteps, only loud silence. 

Quickly he swipes the doctor off the stool, his fingers twitching slightly at the thoughts of someone catching him committing such a sentimental act. Flug jostles in his arms. His head drops back, bag falling down but catching on his forehead. Black Hat would have slipped it back down and carried on, if he hadn't done more than glance at the his face. 

The doctor’s always had burn marks, sure. And bags under his eyes? What human didn't have those? But he’s never seen him look, well… bad. 

He doesn't even know if that’s the right term to be using. He’s never found the doctor’s face repulsive like other humans do, but instead fascinating and, beautiful, even. The largest scar, on his cheek, is a nice contrast to the ivory of his skin. A bubbling of his darker soul shown on his innocent looking face. 

But the chubbiness and perkiness of his cheeks have wilted, and his skin is now an off-shade of grey. It’s a scrubbed grey that is straining at the seams, and so irritated it’s bleeding a very faded white in the center. It’s pale and blotchy, with no peeks of red anywhere. Black Hat’s seen corpses that have looked healthier than him! 

Dark charcoal is etched under his eyes, shadowed to make the appearance almost puffy seeming; yet at the same time, the skin is so sunken. Fainter wrinkle lines break across the surface of his skin, extending from the corners of his eyes to just below his cheekbones. Below and above his cheeks his skin is a sheer chiffon, where Black Hat would expect to be able to see his bones at this point. But perhaps his skin has always been this white underneath, his bag does hold him back from getting sunlight. 

Does doctor Flug sleep? 

Surely he has to, all mortals need to for survival. And the doctor’s still alive, the rising of his chest and his pulse fluttering lightly against his neck proves this. He can feel his warmth sinking into his own chest and on his forearms. His thin exhales from his nostrils are dancing down Black Hat's chest. He is definitely alive. 

The doctor’s not the happiest here. Black Hat knows this. But is he this miserable to drive himself to this point? 

Or is this the result of the compulsiveness he has for every invention to be absolutely perfect? Not a gear or screw out of place. 

Or does he feel rushed? His mind too crammed from not having more time to piece things together with the deadlines Black Hat sets? 

But if Black Hat didn't give Flug a deadline, then his inventions would never be handed in! Flug frets to much about the tinier details, the insignificant ones; and by the time he's done the little confidence he’s obtained at the beginning of the project has depleted entirely. He talks himself out of the invention being worth something, focusing on imaginary flaws past that point. 

Then he becomes past the point of overtired, frets because he remembers that Black Hat is the one who is judging it, and messes up. Black Hat knows exactly how he ticks, and the doctor would be better off if he could just calm down and trust himself. 

Regardless to whatever is stressing him out so much, there’s a breaking point for every human. A time when they just can’t keep ignoring their needs.   
Their instincts take over, either passing them out or forcing their legs to carry them to bed. No human is strong enough to push through instinct. 

Unless something is driving them to carry on. Something strong, like-

Demencia’s- curse her!- wavering pitch shreds at his eardrums, like the lizard-girl herself, demanding to be heard. Her voice in perfect tone with earlier, when she spewed out that horrible word: 

Love.

Bile rises in the back of Black Hat’s throat. An eye pops out of his stomach, twitching madly; a tentacle flickers out of his back, akin to an irked cat’s tail. 

He’s been drowning himself in his work to make inventions perfect for her! All this time, nights he chose to slave over inventions, and most of them were custom orders of her’s! 

Sure Black Hat gives him deadlines, but they have a business to maintain. They can’t make clients wait too long, the public is demanding and impatient.

Flug could have slept or taken a break if he wanted, or what is now looking like needed, to. Elvira is one of the customers that are okay with extending deadlines, knowing that the quality is worth the wait. 

Flug must be driven mad, wanting every detail to be perfect for her. His inventions for her hardly ever have flaws! 

It’s his own fault he’s tired! Not Black Hat’s! He stares down at the deep bags, no longer feeling that weight launching against his chest. Instead all the pressure flows to his arms, and heats instead of cools. He feels his own skin darkening instead of paling, the thoughts of it all being his fault far out of his mind now. 

His doctor is wasting all his energy on such a hag! It’s such a stupid choice when he should be worrying and spending energy on more important things! 

Black Hat loosens his grip on Flug, no longer caring if he wakes up. 

He is about to drop him, but then he whimpers. 

The scientist’s lips bend to the edge of his left mouth, scrunching and etching lines across the bridge of his nose. His eyes scrunch, pupils skittering quickly underneath his flickering lids. He turns his head harshly, hair digging into Black Hat’s chest. 

Something twitches in the palms of his hand. 

He glances down, realizing now that he started to grip the doctor a little too rough. His nails are puncturing his skin, piercing tiny holes in the right sleeve of his lab coat. 

Slowly he eases his clutch, rubbing the skin softly as a silent apology. 

Hopefully the doctor won’t notice the marks in the morning.

Black Hat jostles him with one hand on the back of his knee caps, drawing his own thigh up on Flug's lower back to push him up and steady him, before pulling him closer into his chest. 

The doctor whimpering only serves to intensify. 

His grip wasn’t that hard! He’s held him in much worse positions before… 

Groaning lightly, his breath plummets onto the doctor’s neck and flutters the bottom of his bag. He rests his other hand on his back, rubbing the area in smooth circles. His nails rake along the skin softly, Black Hat being more mindful this time to be softer with him. 

Yet the whimpering gets even worse, Flug squirming in his arms now! His shoulders are arching upwards, spine wiggling to get away from his hand. 

Black Hat seizes his motions. 

Flug continues to toss, lips thinned out and eyes scrunched again. 

Oh… 

He’s having a nightmare. 

Of course. 

Scoffing, Black Hat slips his silhouette that is behind him in front of him swiftly. He’s not about to take the risk of that bear, or for Hell’s sake that lizard woman, seeing him carefully carrying the scientist to his bed! He wouldn't want them to know that he cares a little bit. 

He drops into the shadow, holding his doctor closer to himself. The empty space of black bleeds into the shadow-dripping navy blue walls of Flug’s bedroom. 

Black Hat eases Flug onto his bed, lowering his arms as gently as he can. He whimpers, sucking in a quick inhale, and snaps his face into his covers. He thrashes away just as sudden, slamming his face into the sleeve of Black Hat’s coat. His fingers twitch slightly beside him. 

Black Hat straightens out the doctor’s legs, lowering and twisting himself to sit on the mattress besides Flug. 

Flug twists his face slightly out of his sleeve, chin slipping down onto the mattress. He whines, hands now munching into his crimson blanket. 

“Let’s see what’s bothering you.” Black Hat mumbles absently, raking Flug’s sweaty hair aside from his forehead and pushing his bag further up in the process. He sprawls his fingers across his forehead. He removes his monocle, twisting it idly on the tip of his claw, before resting it on the doctor’s right temple. Closing the pads of his fingers over it, he mumbles consonants from a language lost centuries ago. 

The glass glows violet, boiling into a lilac as it melts slightly into Flug’s head. Black Hat shuts his eye to drown out the doctor’s room, pupil rolling back. 

Bright light consumes him, and he waits several seconds for the setting to adjust.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added another chapter to this overall work once again since I still had some more I wanted to include in this chapter, but am posting what I have now since I know it will take me a little bit to write it all.. 
> 
> Thank you all again for your support, and patience!! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy :) I'm pretty excited by this one

He’s in the lab. Or what appears to be the lab, anyway.

Dreams are another thing that portrays the lack of control humans truly have over themselves. Details are off, and constantly changing; yet they know, just by the mere air, exactly where they are. They fathom it all up, but aren’t able to control it! They are only subconsciously aware of what they’re creating. It’s all ridiculous, like mortals themselves.

Yet Black Hat is surprised that there is quite a bit out of place, considering how much time the doctor spends in the lab. He practically lives in it, crashing more on the dusty tiles than in his own bed. Honestly, Black Hat doesn’t know why he bothered giving him a bedroom!

The doors, at least, have somewhat of an explanation for being there. They are the lab’s old doors, ones installed before Dementia was invented. Simple wooden push-open doors. He doesn’t miss them and doesn’t know why he ever installed such tacky things. The doctor somehow managed to stumble through them half the time, his ankles and calves getting beat up by the wood. The amount of times he broke beakers he would be carrying though almost did more damage than Demencia’s first year in the house. Almost.

The walls are a starker chiffon, and the dents in them are massive and bruised. There’s holes as well and they are disoriented and drooling black, shadows pouring out of the edges.

The depths of them seem to be endless.

But Black Hat knows they’re not.

He knows better then to look down, and yet he does. In his defense, it’s been awhile since he’s hopped into someone’s dream. He prefers not to. Humans have a tendency to overcomplicate aspects in their lives, leaving their dreams wonky. A mess of events that aren’t worth digging through for, usually meaningless and minimal, information.

The second his head drops, he’s woozy. The “floor” is disoriented, fuzzy to the point of resembling a malfunctioning television channel. His feet float above it, and at the reminder they start to flounder slightly. It’s another incredibly irritating side-affect of dreams. Humans can’t walk in them, they float.

He glares, snapping his gaze back up. The back corner of the room has his classic wallpaper, top-hats along a stripped background, and deep crimson carpets. Other objects are even more out of place. A lava lamp hovers in one of the corners, glowing tangerine, illuminating a hovering shiny toilet. The bathroom’s marble tiles swim underneath it.

Flug is in the center of the lab, and a bright light pours over him. He’s hunched over a table, his lab coat huddled over his arched shoulders. The table is incredibly long. As it extends on, it fades into pure fuzzy white space that blends in too closely with the walls.

Black Hat begins to step, literally walking on air. As he turns to step around the table, the environment slants into being incredibly flat and one-dimensional. He focuses on what is in front of him, his surroundings slowly popping back to life.

The doctor’s shaking bare hands grip a model plane and a small screwdriver.

The plane is the same plane that was in Black Hat’s own hands a while ago. The small blue plane. His heart shivers once, violently. He hardly flinches at the feeling, choosing not to fully acknowledge it, and instead rolls his eye.

Of course Flug’s dreaming of planes.

The doctor’s room shutters in front of him, breaking up the dream, so he snaps his pupil back in front of his iris.

Behind the scientist now looms a creature.

Black Hat steps quicker, until his stomach bumps into the edge of the table. The wood is numb to him, only a mere whisper across his lower belly. He leans over the table, hands folding behind his back as he peers past the doctor to study the creatures face. Only when his sight darts down the creature can he confirm, by the attire and curves, just who it is supposed to be.

Elvira.

One of her irises is crimson, the exact shade Black Hat’s gets when he’s filled with that rich fire that laps and melts his iris. Her other eye is pure caffeine, burnt expresso boiling around the center of her eye. It gives the blackness of her pupil a steamy appearance, adding more of a bite than usual to it.

Her breasts are larger, and are almost bursting out of her constricting emerald green long sleeve v-neck. Although, it may be a tight-fitting dress.. he can’t tell since the fabric ends several inches above her knee caps.

The rest of her body fades, blurring and mingling with the static floor.

Her smirk looks a bit like Demencia’s, far too wide, but with sharper teeth.

Waves of raven hair pool down her face, softening her jagged cheekbones a tad. Her features continuously shift. Each strand of hair, when it hits different lighting, bleeds into various colors; hues of red’s, green’s, blue’s, purple’s. But they’re barely distinguishable, rays of colors akin to a faded cheap flashlight. The same happens with her long nails that are twirling into the doctor’s shoulder blades.

Literally.

Inside the doctor’s shoulders.

They twist inside them, the edge of her sharp nails scraping at the tops of the bones. They pick at his nerve cells, digging them right underneath her nails. There’s so much torn skin at the surface of the wading pool of blood, but somehow none of it ever spills onto his chest or back.

She is right against his doctor’s spine, and he can see her bellowing breath physically shredding at the back and sides of doctor’s bag.

Her voice sings through the air, her head rocking back and forth, ends of her long hair sweeping against the front of his chest and along his neck. Somehow she does not have a single speck of blood anywhere in the thick strands of her locks, maintaining her usual prestigious appearance.

Her lulled pitch takes a minute to register in his mind. It’s a strange tone, almost lullaby sounding. But it drops the temperature in the lab, evident in the thin steam fluttering out of the inventor’s nose with each exhale. The sound even makes Black Hat’s lower eye twitch, but his reasonings are the opposite of the doctor’s across from him.

Evidently, Flug is having some issues with her…

_Little bird, so absurd, thinking that you’d win with words,_  
_Oh how you squirm, secrets affirmed, never will you get the worm;_

_Regardless to how hard you work, he will always get the perks,_  
_Until the day you die, you will never get to fly-_

All that's circulating in his brain is one question: what the hell?   
  
This is far from what he was expecting. He still doesn't know what he was expecting, but definitely not this. 

Her lyrics coil on her tongue, smoke pouring off her tastebuds. The doctor shoulders cower and bend further into his chest with each word.

He is trembling.

Violently.

Black Hat hasn't seen it this bad in a long time.

The last time he shook this hard was when he first started working for Black Hat, years ago. It used to be so much worse, to the extent that his teeth would chatter and he couldn't form his stiff tongue around any words. He sweat all his weight out.

Black Hat bends closer over the table, practically in the doctor’s face. He knows he doesn’t have to worry about Flug seeing him, because his subconscious doesn't imagine him being there.

But even if it did, Black Hat doesn't think Flug would register his existence. His eyes are void, pupils shrunk to the extent that he can’t see them. And he’s only standing several inches away from him!

His chest is rising now, bumping against his chin.

Elvira rests her cheek against his bag, the edge of her cheekbones a diamond, ripping a hole through the side of his bag.

It doesn't make a sound.

Her grin splits her jaw apart, soot smoke continuing to bellow out between the tiny spaces between her teeth.

His cheek, the side with the burn mark, now is stained with a thick white line from her scratch. The edges of the scratch begin to burn a brighter red. A raspberry hue that’s been squished for what it was worth, dehydrated and left blotchy.

She straightens, closing her hands over the doctor’s. She begins to fly the plane, going through the motions of the plane taking off, turbulence, and flowing steadily. Around his hands clouds lick in between and through their fingers, and a thin blue sketches across his palm as she turns his hand to open it slightly.

Blankly Flug watches, putting no resistance against her movement.

She circles his hand back up and into a harsher fist, the blue sky around their fingers fading into a grey.

**BAM!**

Elvira smashes the plane in his fist.

Even Black Hat’s shoulders rise a millimeter from the suddenness of the action. He can feel the splinters crawling into the palms of his hands.  


The doctor’s fist remains tightly shut.

Loud screams rip through the air. The plane explodes into a fire, smoke shooting between the cracks of his fingers. It screeches, before crumbling down into his palm.

His head plummets instantly, gaze boring down at his fist.

Elvira cackles behind him, loud and shrill. The sound burning at the bag around his ears, disintegrating it into embers that float in front of the doctor. They drift into his nostrils, gluing to the hairs, but still he remains motionless.

Slowly she turns his fist up, palm first, prying his stiff fingers open one by one. The strain in his body is evident in his bobbing vein that stretches up his wrist. She leans impossibly far over him, lips hovering over his palm, and blows the dust. It skitters off into the environment, dancing in front of Black Hat’s face.

The smoke’s hot, a strange contrast to the chilled lab.

The room is ringing now. The walls, all glowing, steadily draw in closer and closer.

She plucks off his bag from the top, with the pads of her thumb and pointer finger, effortlessly dropping it to the floor. His goggles are gone with it, somehow all in one fluid motion.

The bag sweeps upwards as it flutters down, promptly fading into the grey atmosphere.

The ringing heightens in pitch and volume, the walls shaking now. Not to where they appear they are going to crash, but more of a tremble that matches the tempo of the doctor’s shoulders.

Flug breaks away from her, shoving his elbows into her ribs.

Elvira doesn’t put up a fight.

She doesn’t even flinch.

She takes a step back, expression slack. Her posture is lax, her lips molding into a barely visible smile.

Flug stumbles away, searching out with strained fingers. He rips open a wooden charcoal drawer that, out of thin air, has popped in front of him.

Then another drawer appears.

And another.

Endless draws appear, each sprouting quicker than the last, and punch the doctor’s stomach with how far they extend. He tears open a never ending column of drawers, dodging around the open ones that fade into nothingness. He’s traveling, yet doesn’t move far.

Each drawer is empty, just a clean slate of faded wood on the inside.

Black Hat knows what he’s looking for.

The noun’s echoing off the walls.

Bouncing and slamming into his eardrums, thudding around, and heightening that blasted ringing!

Matches.

“Silly bird, ramming itself into the bars of your tiny cage. There’s no escape.”

Heels click, ramming off the walls that the doctor can no longer see. They’ve vanished, but their presence is stained on the squished aspect of the room. The space has gotten crammed, everything tightly wound together.

Flug doesn’t respond, and at this point Black Hat wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t comprehending her words. His lips are wobbling, his mouth only holding itself together by attempting to smash his bottom and top lips against one another. Chiffon bleeds out of his lips.

He continues to tear his dream apart, drawers getting nearer and nearer together.

Her voice gets louder, his subconscious demanding to be fully heard. “The harder you fight, the more you are just hurting yourself by working yourself up so much.” She rests her hands on her knees, pursing her lips at him as her brows crinkle together. The edges of her lips tilt downwards, a new sparkle in the fronts of her pupil that remind him of 5.0.5.

Her face looks the most like hers in real life, her iris loosing all traces of red pigmentation.

Black Hat hates it.

It’s the true face of a human.

The strains and wrinkles that etch onto a face that scream how much that person is hurting on the inside, and all for just another person!

However the grinding of his organs is mainly due to how wrong that look plastered across her face is. It’s disgustedly over exaggerated, and so fake.

He knows what feigning emotion looks like. He does it all the time.

She makes it way too obvious.

Her voice heightens in pitch further, cooing, “And you already work enough.” She slams the palms of her hands onto her knees again, her hair covering her face this time as she dramatically giggles.

This is the Elvira he knows. Her tone, even in a laugh that booms from her diaphragm, maintains a low and dangerous mood.

With each moment passing Flug gets more and more shaky, eyes widening further, and arms moving into more of a rapid blur.

A pink envelope.

He’s surprised the doctor caught sight of it with how fast he was moving.

His limbs slam to a halt. The reaction isn’t late. He knew this was coming.

With each hand on the side of the metal drawer, he collapses, elbows fully bent on each side of his head. Strands of his wavy hair plummet in front of his face, but Black Hat never has to see his expression to know what the doctor’s feeling. It’s something he can taste in the molecules of the air that flee off his scrawny limbs.

The last shred of Flug’s composure is gone now. It’s obvious to him.

His body looks as if he has just vomited out his emotions—that Black Hat knows have been rolling around and turning his stomach upside down—and left nothing behind in his system to cling to. No cells to fuel his frigidness or shakiness, only just enough blood to leave him barely slouching.

The envelope trembles slightly, much like the doctor above him. His stance is slack, yet fingers tense, and Black Hat can tell his shoulders are shaking slightly still.

The pink paper rustles, and hints of emerald start to bleed out of the opening of the envelope. Vines crawl out, twisting as they bundle together and rise.

The doctor does nothing.

Thin mist lingers behind the vines, and coils in between each thorn. Vapor gathers on the tips of each thorn, heavy water forming and filling into droplets.

One slinks off a thorn.

The droplet immediately gets swallowed by the static below Flug, the water abruptly melting.

_Hiss._

Neither the plant nor Flug balk at the sound. The splatters of the droplet explode into more vapor, but this time its thinner and doesn’t linger in the air.

The vine sways in place, no longer growing but now starting at Flug.

The inventor’s pupils sink into the vine, each one unblinking.

The vines a predator, and the poor doctor is always the prey.

It bites around his throat, the vine yanking him further down into the drawer as it thrusts its thorns deep into his neck. The peppermint explodes in a white puffy cloud, fogging over his face. His eyes are instantly coated in salt water, pupils waxy, and Black Hat can feel them burning from where he’s standing. Crimson has already began to scratch at the corners of the doctor’s irises.

Flug’s scream is unexpected.

Black Hat’s sound waves are snatched, and forced through a paper shredder that is purely Flug’s screeching.

He never realized how much he didn’t like him screaming when he wasn’t the cause of it. Not until now.

He never imagined it would be a problem to hear. He assumed he would laugh at the scientist being so terrified.

Then again, he’s never heard a sound anywhere close to this coming from the doctor.

When Flug's startled by Demencia, he squeaks, which is humorous.. but he never screams like this.

Scream isn’t the right word to describe the intensity of this noise.

Outside the dream Black Hat knows it isn’t this deafening. That he’s only whispering, body most likely only slightly thrashing around.

But not even when Black Hat’s taken multiple demonic forms, explosions of lividness in front of him, has he made this sound. The doctor’s typically motionless and silent after his yelping, and sometimes passes out.

His wailing is worse than a wounded animal. More akin to a mother whose witnessed the murder of her own child. But without the moisture of her own tears clogging her throat that creates gurgled shrills, or the white expansion of her fully shrunken pupils that renders her mute.

Instead his screams are ones contaminated with the upward shivers of a spine, those tremors that never cease their slobbering on each individual chord of a human’s soundbox. That make their yells wobble off their shaking tongues.

His voice is cracking, yet it doesn’t stop the power of volume in his shrieks.

Humans are complicated. That’s already been established, and proven far too many times in the expansions of Black Hat’s mind.

Their emotions are rarely singular. There’s never just one filling their bones. There’s always a lingering of another emotion in the background. They rarely, if not ever, feel one emotion. There’s always something else, even if it’s the smallest of a fraction.

But not here, not in these howls. Flug, yet again, exceeds the limitations he sets on humanity.

His cells are exploding out of his mouth, his throat already growing hoarse. All he can hear and see is panic. Only the slightest variation of emotion in him is terror, fear, horror… it’s all the same!

It’s…

troubling.

The doctor’s haunted.

And it makes no sense why! 

Before Black Hat can fully ponder putting Flug out of his misery by waking him up, Elvira’s voice is back. The waves of her voice somehow traveling over his crying. It’s powerful enough, without her having to scream, to be heard.

“These are just paper cuts.” She now has an identical pink envelope in between her middle and index fingers, pointedly staring at the envelope. Her sharp nails now match the light hue of magenta of the stationary. She’s a true chameleon.

“Just a hint of all the pain. It’s all in my head Flug Slys. You know that. Matches, ripping, nothing will stop me, or yourself, from forgetting everything. You know the only way to stop me,” her grin splits the bottom of her face in half, teeth jutting out, “and you can’t.”

She’s in front of Flug now, all the drawers surrounding them. They trap him, and one drawer digging into his back forces him even closer to her. Thankfully, his shrieking has wilted to slight whimpers. She chortles in his face, hands slamming down on each side of the open drawer. Flug flinches backward, spine banging into the drawer’s wooden handle. His nose cringes up into his eyes, and he is rendered completely silent.

“Because stopping me would still make you lose. Because he’d know. He’d know everything. He’d have all the proof he’d need to know that you are truly pathetic, a true human.”

Her voice morphs, octaves heightening and then lowering. She’s beginning to, vaguely, sound like Flug. 

“Does it hurt more that he hasn't realized it yet? That there’s something else terrorizing you and that his huge ego is getting in the way, because he can’t realize that the reason isn’t him? Or that he probably notices, and just doesn't care?” Her nails dig into the wood, splinters rolling under her fingernails.

She flips her hands over, sliding her palms upwards on the wood, her elbows locked as her iris hardens and shines ruby again. “Or that at any moment he could learn the truths? Facts to back up how weak and broken you really are?” She breaks away, her hands clasping on his shoulders. She, along with the drawer, appears to be the only things holding the doctor up.

  
“Is it the fact that you can never stand up for yourself?” She hoists him up a bit higher, and it forces him to attempt to straighten his quivering knees. “Killing me would set your truths free, and he would know everything. Black Hat, after demanding to know why you would kill me, would kill you. I’m the best customer you have! Loosing me will harm the company. I’ve created some of the best ideas that have been top sellers, and have reaped so much exposure and profits. Either way you loose! You always loose.”

Elvira digs her nails into his shoulder blades again, all the scarring and blood from earlier gone.

“You really are trapped.” She frowns down at him, her bottom lip dangling under her thinning top one. Abruptly she detaches her claws, smirking as the doctor topples backwards.

The drawer inches backwards. Flug steps back blindly, one foot after the other, slowly chasing it.

“You could run away from him, but never from me. He may have strings attached to you,” Her voice speedily rises in volume, but lowers in pitch. “but I have chains.”

With the sweep of her hand the doctor is tumbling forwards, barely managing to catch himself with wobbling extended arms.

She barks again, the beakers in the room trembling.

Black Hat can barely breathe. Luckily he doesn’t have to, but the air he can’t help but filter in since it’s literally surrounding him. However, now it’s throttling him around his neck.

He's seen the doctor like this, countless times. 

A cold dryness washes over his system. It rinses out all the emotions and unstructured accusations that's been clogging his head. 

Fear.

He saw it before, obviously, but only now is everything starting to connect.

Flug isn’t in love with Elvira.

He’s afraid of her, and deathly so.

 

He hasn’t been silent out of shyness! He’s been mute because of how much of an impact she has on him! Not an overheated motionless mess out of love, but out of panic!

She’s been messing with him this entire time, feeding off his bouncing cells and trembling heart strings.

She’s toying with him.

It happens in nature constantly. Animals that play with their food before consuming it, kids that get bullied by other kids… it’s all the same really. Someone messing with someone else for pure entertainment. Typically, out of boredom.

And it’s all been happening this whole time, the entire situation completely misread by him, and all because of stupid jealousy.

Why would he listen to Demencia of all people?? That should have been the first warning sign!

Elvira’s been scaring his doctor, all for laughs. Blackmailing him, making him fear his own boss when Black Hat alone should be enough to instal fear.

He should be the only one doing so! No other villain, or hell person or thing, should scare Flug more than he does!

The veins at his wrists tie each other in knots, and no amount of clenching his fists will get the pressure there to numb. Flug belongs to him. The doctor has to fear him. He’s the boss!

The heat is coming. But this time in a wave he knows is going to end in complete destruction.

He’s not mad. He’s not furious.

He’s fucking livid.

His organs are bashing against his chest, his limbs stiffening. Thick lava surges into his arms, and it pools and burns in his iris.

If he was awake, his monocle would be cracking.

He blinks the heat out of his eye, and a trail of thin smoke scorches down his face. The magma refills his eye, this time higher.

For once this all isn’t directed towards the doctor, or anyone else. Sure he wants to, no, is going to, kill Elvira. And he’s pissed Flug has let this carry on to the point of his sanity breaking, and didn’t come to him at all.

But he’s the most furious with himself, at the moment.

A rare event, that hasn’t happened in centuries. He’s a proud man, and has more than enough evidence compiled to not seem completely cocky. He’s done a lot of good— well, depending on the person whose judging the events— things.

So, he knows the extent of this outrage towards himself won’t last. It was something anyone could have assumed with the facts stated. Demencia believed so herself that they were dating and in love.

But it was a mistake.

Such a human mistake. And Black Hat doesn’t make mistakes.

It should have been so easy to see! That a pink envelope wouldn’t contain blueprints, not at the rate they were obviously being delivered. Her being left alone with him so often should have been alarming enough.

Well, lesson learned. He won’t be leaving Flug alone with anyone outside the house ever again.

Elvira didn’t just play Flug. She played Black Hat.

If Flug wasn’t the person involved, Black Hat may have had some respect for her. But anyone who tries to cross Black Hat either has a death wish, or is extremely stupid. Usually, both of these.

Elvira falls under these categories. Though it took Black Hat a second to fully reach this conclusion. 

At first his train of thought jumped to her solely wanting leverage over an employee. And who better to go with than Doctor Flug? The mad scientist, a large power, behind the business. Although not always correct, he makes all the machinery and inventions. He's the only man who knows the inside and outside of the mansion, and more than most about Black Hat himself.

Gather enough blackmail against someone, and a person’s got themselves a submissive servant.

But what got him to move on from this theory was what she could possibly gain from him. What the doctor could possibly provide for her that he hasn’t already. She already gets inventions from him, and anything custom one she wants!

The next answer is obvious.

Villains, when they’re strong enough, quickly grow bored. Black Hat knows her game. Black Hat is the largest villain in the world, hell, in the universe! Why not try to go after his company? See if she can get to one of his employees, and see the extent some damage can do to someone. How it can affect Black Hat, and the company itself. 

She already has everything she needs from the doctor, and more. He already works for her.

He’s practically her servant with how quick he was to disobey his orders the other day of something as simple as remaining in the lab. She already has him lying to him! 

He has to see those letters. Has to see each time she’s touched him, what was happening literally behind his back in the lab this entire time. Has to see how long this has all been going on.

He has to dig deeper.

He has to know. Every single detail.

Shadows and darkness are the canvas in human dreams, always on the surface but never focused on since all the details and images paint over them. A dream is just a figment, a small fraction, that consumes the human brain. There’s way more to the brain, so much of it that humans do not use.

The gaping holes from earlier in the walls are examples of these… portals, of sorts.

Shadows that can transport someone like Black Hat into another section of the brain apart from the dream. They can lead into memories, which account for the beginnings of explanations as to why the subconscious strung together the specific details in that dream. There’s also simply darkness behind others, that human’s don’t know how to fill with anything.

Regardless to what’s behind the portals, there’s never a complete thought process or explanation that makes the dream make complete sense. The human mind, surprisingly for what little it obtains, is something hard to fully comprehend and know the in-and-outs of. Black Hat blames this on humans themselves never fully knowing how to organize themselves. They can’t control most of the things they remember, so they fill their minds with useless information and pointless memories.

He dips into the largest shadow, leg sticking through the wall. He glances back at the dream, knowing that it will slow down further and that he can simply return to it later. Dreams don’t have a concept of time, and move already so slowly. Black Hat’s speeding this up, so he can slow it down too.

Fully stepping through the shadow, he’s met with a navy blue hallway.

Ah, good. He was not in the mood to dig through thinning and cobwebbed memories.

Doors are something that humans typically have in their minds that shadows and darkness creates. A universal sign for something being stored in a safe location is, after all, a closed door.

There’s several doors. One navy blue with little planes scrambled across the wood. Others just plain mahogany.

He rounds the corner of the hall, hoping the door will be obvious.

Thankfully it is.

The door is hidden in shadows, but the bright pink makes it stand out.

His gaze doesn’t linger long on it. Down the hall, across from her door, are grand double doors that are ebony. Top hats deck the outside of it, and even the doorknobs are top hats.

Black Hat, almost, walks past Elvira’s door to peek inside his.

He has the largest doors in Flug’s hall so far. Larger than Flug’s own!

Then again, he knows the size of the door doesn’t say much about the amount that’s behind the doors.

He grins around his jagged teeth anyway, drool oozing from the corners of his lips.

The sheer size does enough for him, for now. He’ll look later, the door clearly isn’t going anywhere.

He halts in front of the pasty door, and reaches for the golden handle that has a single mail stamp in the center of it. It’s a stamp of a heart.

The second his fingers close around the knob, a deep shudder pours down his back. It’s frigid. In real life the cold would not affect him this much.

Peppermint is flooding from underneath the crack of the door, smacking into his shoes and seemingly drifting right through them. His feet begin to loose feeling; and the air around him shifts to pry at his skin, stretching it too far.

The door is slightly stuck, and he has to use his shoulder to shove it open.

He breaths in an attempt to prepare himself.

This part is never easy.

The moment he steps through the door, snapshots of everything consume all his senses. Memories of countless hours dwindle down to mere seconds, and his skin crawls at the rapid motions. Pink, biting peppermint, ink, copper, all colors of the rainbow, smoky embers, and the stench of paper. His shoulders are scratched to the bone. He can’t feel them anymore. When he blinks impeccable cursive is all he can see.

Just as it’s started, it’s over. What felt so short also was a seemingly incredible amount of time, but he’s gained insight on every detail Flug has remembered.

And damn, it’s a lot.

At he end he’s crying, which he blames on all his choking from the smells. The peppermint is the most powerful, and clogs all his senses. He’s down on the floor, the force of the scent and images bringing him to his knees. The sounds of fire sparking and hissing to life still crackles in his ears.

The room is too hot.

He’s melting.

No, he’s sweltering. He’s sweating, oozing even.

His organs twist in on himself. He wants to puke, and he can feel his body crawling up into his throat. If he coughs now he can hack out organs, he’s done it before.

He glances up, through his hazy vision, and Flug is mere inches away from him in a similar position. But he’s in more pain, sobbing with fingers splayed out. Burnt out matches and shreds of paper pile around him, charcoal dusting the pads of his fingers, and with wide eyes he gapes. He’s sobbing, chest heaving, and eyes squeezing shut. To the point of lines cracking the skin on the bridge of his nose.

One hand breaks off the floor, rubbing over his ribs.

Are they what the cracking noise is now?

The largest scar on his face is burning, a vibrant tiger that’s lashing its claws at his cheek.

Whines and whimpers punch out of him, and saliva is hanging out his mouth. A trail of mucus from his nose mixes in with it. His lashes are spidery, trapped together by all the salt water, casting faint shadows over his red irises.

He sways, rising on his knees fully and slamming his other hand back down on the floor to clutch it, before collapsing. His pupils slam into the back of his eyes as he plunges onto the checkered tile, lying motionless with his fingers now loose.

The room itself typically shows a humans state of mind with the memories presented there. Everyone’s doors are split up differently, but typically similarly. Flug’s doors seem to be divided by the people he encounters. Of course, there’s a vast amount of hallways though. This is far from all there is to it that the doctor has stored in his mind.

This Flug is different than the one in his dreams.

He was screaming before. His face wasn’t in clear sight, but Black Hat knows he wasn’t sobbing like this. Teary eyed maybe, but not to this extent.

Elvira broke him down to tears. No, not just tears. She tore him and left him to chest heaving sobs.

Multiple times.

Leaving him so weak that he has to fall to and clutch the ground. Feel that alone. Driving him to be even more sleepless. To feel even more worthless. Obliterate the little self-worth he had for himself.

He is going to murder her.

Slowly.

To the extent where she feels all the pain Flug did, and even more so. Drive her to the brink of sanity, but still to the point where she wants to live. And she begs for her worthless life, stupidly thinking she has a chance at survival.

That her life is worth it. That she isn’t pathetic!

He’ll let her think she can live, too. And then when she’s walking away, believing she’s won again, he’ll kill her.

Ripping his own shadow open below him, Black Hat leaps back into the dream. He doesn’t have time for walking down the hall. Or remaining in Flug’s head, really.

He’s seen enough.

He has to do something. He isn’t sure what exactly, yet, but he just knows that he has to do something.

Now.

The dream shakes back into order, dropping back across the dark canvas in broken columns.

His calves are pounding, matching the tempo on the insides of his arms. A deep strain coats across his face, and even his lips are tense in a flat line. The rows of his teeth are nailed together, and the pressure chomps through the bones of his cheeks and jaw.

Elvira has Flug cornered still, this time his back against the lab table that was there earlier. Glass beakers of all shapes and sizes litter the surface of the pearl counter, quivering as Elvira’s shadow pours over them.

Her hand raises, nails glittering under the porcelain light that rains down from a triangular lampshade above them. The rich shade of her nails now match the color of Flug’s blood.

Flug’s face is sheer, stained in daisy petals. He’s trembling like the flower itself on a windy day.

And, damn it, Black Hat can’t leave now.

Not with this all to familiar scene, right in front of him!

Not when he can interfere this time.

It’s in Flug’s head, still disturbing him. This, suddenly, matters to Black Hat. To protect the doctor here, even if in his dreams.

Maybe because he already feels too late on this all?

This is a question Black Hat doesn’t allow to fully walk across him mind, he sweeps it away immediately, thoughts leaping back to fully focus on the scene in front of him.

Elvira is going to regret the day she ever laid a single nail of hers on his doctor. Starting now.

He hates that this isn’t the real her. Just a figment of the doctor’s imagination, an aspect that cannot feel anything. Oh well, this will have to settle… for now.

At least this will give him the tiniest bite of the satisfaction he’s going to feel later when he watches her collapse and crush under his shadows. Her soul deteriorating ever so slowly, but feeling ever molecule of pain.

His lips stretch around his fangs, but they barely turn up at the edges.

If it were anyone else he’d be cackling by now! The energy of a new kill bouncing on top of his skin, and buzzing through his body in what he imagines caffeine feels like for humans. Flashes clouding his vision of his prey’s body shrinking, their mouths opening as wide as they can to spit out endless screams, and their eyes stretching across the top of their face. Sometimes the hideous tears, and mucus trails under their nose that they aren’t even aware that they’re swallowing.

This time, though, it’s all different.

Everything seems to be when the doctor’s involved.

If he thinks about it for too long, it’ll leave his bones heavy, and skin with a layer of snow over it. His face tense, dry, and frigid.

Out of all the kills he’s made, he’s never valued the death more than the reactions he gets. He wants to see her suffer, oh believe him he does, but more than anything he wants Flug to see her corpse on the floor.

He wants to see her lifeless body on the tiled floor of the lab.

He wants, no needs, his doctor to see this. To know that this is the result when someone, other than Black Hat, fucks with him.

To see the proof that this is all over.

No matter how much she thrashes or wails, no matter how violent, Black Hat already knows that the reactions won’t be enough to satisfy him. They’ll humor him and please him a bit, but no reaction could be enough to fully halt the burning acid tearing at his chest.

He’s never had such strong motives behind killing someone, not until now.

Her hand rises, inching towards him. Flug’s limbs are wobbling, fingers chomping through the edge of the counter behind him. His legs quaking underneath him.

That repulsive smell is back, scorching the air; and, yet somehow at the same time, it leaves the molecules around the space brisk.

They melt against Black Hat’s skin.

Dense soot sweeps under his feet, rising Black Hat off the ground as his shoulders and body is swallowed up by it.

Just because he doesn’t know her crying will fully satisfy him, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t still crave to swallow her shrills.

The fire is back, popping blood vessels that explode his irises. The flashbacks of memories of all she’s done slams back into his mind. He wants that feeling back, wants this strike to be powerful and worth being his first kill of her.

The reaction is instant, a sparking match. The doctor did ask for a fire, after all.

His eyes are both engulfed in flames momentarily, swallowing them whole and leaving behind bleeding burnt cherry.

Raising his hand, he is about to make himself visible to Flug.

Two of his fingers inch closer together, resting against one another.

A buzz shoots down his hand, but just before he can snap there’s a darting figure. He, in the very last possible millisecond, seizes all motions.

The fog of obsidian slams into Elvira, smoke exploding behind it, and knocks her into another lab table. The beakers in the room shatter. Loud howls from gusts of wind rip the glass apart. Shards soar and splatter onto the ground, immediately vanishing when splotches of ink out of nowhere cover them.

Some of the glass, that was about to pierce the doctor, are suddenly frozen and floating. The segments of darkness consume them, swallowing them whole.

The doctor watches, eyes widening and mouth slanting open.

A new glisten flashes across his pupils, and his shaking completely ends for a second.

The figure shoots up, revealing an ebony silhouette that is far too easy to identify.

Well, this.. this is interesting.

It lands back on the floor, dusting the ash from its shoulders in one fluid swipe of the hand.

For the first time in this dream, Black Hat genuinely grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some clarity for Black Hat! (I hope everything made sense here, I did a quick edit) 
> 
> I am incredibly excited to write the next chapter, and for you all to read it!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh this fic has been on hiatus for far too long. Thank you once again for being extremely patient! I wish I had more time to work on this, and I really hope and am aiming for the next chapter to be out really soon. I just switched jobs and long story short my life has been very busy. 
> 
> I hope you all like it!

Never, in all the time he has been alive, would he had thought someone could view him as a hero. 

Much less his reaction being to grin, instead of completely obliterating the person who dared to view him in such a way. Even if that person is doing so self-consciously. 

For them to still even have the inkling of such a concept wedged inside their brains! Completely ridiculous! 

But here “he” is in Flug’s dreams, using his powers and all, to defend a crouched and weak human. An overly cliché heroic scene! 

Yet, somehow, his lips are glued upwards at the edges. Pinned there by his drool that leaves his lower lip sticky. 

And the energy thrashing through his veins! It’s exactly like when he sets fire to a city, and watches hundreds of civilians stumble, scream, and burn. Large chunks of their lively-hood that they’ve worked so hard for, and loved ones, being eaten away by mere flames. The tears, and the beautiful soot and smoke that stains the city afterwards. Lingering in the clouds and blackening the rain, contaminating and destroying all the life that managed to live. 

The thrumming is strong, vibrating his bones, and drives the rows of his teeth further together. 

He knows, without having to look— a mirror would be useless here anyway, humans can’t fathom working mirrors in their dreams, there’s nothing real to reflect— that there’s a shine glazing over his pupil. 

He’s proud. 

And he’s not even the one doing the work, technically. 

The edge of his right lip tilts higher, sinking down the left side to the point of his lips touching again.

The other version of him strikes his gloved hand out, swallowing Elvira in a shadow that slams her back against the dimming white wall that’s morphing into metal. 

The shadow picks each individual bone of her spine, plucking them up to the brink of her back. Her spine rises until it shows under her skin, but doesn’t break it. The thin skin barely clinging to and around her spine resembles the murky frosted blue of a frozen lake. 

Screeeechhh. 

The darkness drags her spine directly against the metal, millimeter by millimeter. 

She hisses, spit soaring out of her clenched teeth. But the shadow has consumed her, and leaves her saliva to hit its barrier that is mete inches away from her face. It smacks her across her chin. 

The scene is too delicate. Too slow! 

If it were the real him, he would have yanked her spine out in one sharp motion. He’d leave it on its last hinges, hanging out, barely latching on to her skull. All to ensure that she could feel the blood splashing down her legs, and the brisk air burning inside her torn back. Feel every bone of her raw spine digging into the frigid metal. 

Between the ringing and her pulse smashing against her eardrums, any sense of comfort of hearing normal background noise would be destroyed by the wailing of her literal bones scraping. 

The rich copper would swamp into her nostrils, and stain her final shivering breaths. She would be forced to swallow around the putrid smell, and literally choke on the scent of her own death. 

Sadly, his dream self is more tame. 

The shadow thins out, thickening around her ankles and wrists. The soot lingers underneath her neck, casting darkness that pools on top of her collarbones. 

Elvira attempts to thrash, but all she can do swing her head and torso from side to side. 

Her jaw opens wide and the shadows take the opportunity to plunge inside her mouth, choking her further. They flatten her tongue down and force it far into the bottom of her jaw. They prob at her esophagus, causing her neck to now physically throb. The smoke slivers behind the blinding white irises of her eye, dimming them. Her drool that’s started flooding down her chin becomes contaminated with oil. Her lips are stained ebony. 

The figment of himself doesn’t spare her a glance, instead dropping his hand to take long strides toward the kneeling doctor. 

She plummets, the shadow vanishing. 

Flug’s fingers itch beside him, floating in the air and hitting against what he thinks is a solid floor. He’s sure he would have backed up further if his back weren’t already digging into the edge of the lab table. He freezes, spine stiff, and his pupils can’t seem to decide if he wants to focus on her or his silhouette. 

“Doctor.” 

The deep tone swipes Flug’s full attention on his figure, the doctor’s pupils expanding and lids unblinking. 

Black Hat has to give it to Flug. His pitch, and even the slight growl at the end, is almost identical to his own. 

A shaky breath wavers out of his mouth, kicking his chest on the way out. It’s clear in the way his chest bones shove against the skin of his chest with his inhales, and collapse into his stomach with each exhale. A heavy enough plummet to drive the doctor forward into himself, his head falling to stare emptily at the “floor”. 

His dream self steps closer, his shoes directly in front of Flug’s converse. This gets the doctor to look up, but only momentarily at him. 

The figure rises his hand back out towards Elvira, who is slumped on the floor. Her raven hair covers her face, and her head is hanging to the right so heavily that her chin digs into her collarbone. 

In the flick of his wrist Elvira’s limbs snap out. Instantly she is withering, arms and legs wiggling and curling into herself. Her head is up, eyes so wide that her lids are gone as she stares directly at Flug. Her irises are ashy. The bore of her gaze is completely void. Breaking eye-contact, she drops her head again and pulls it into her chest. 

She starts to scream. 

It’s inhuman. 

The sound cracks the airwaves apart. 

It’s far too screechy, like a bat being set on fire. 

The sheer pitch that would certainly break glass is, thankfully, strangled by the thick smoke that bellows out of the spaces between her teeth and nostrils. 

It’s captivating, and almost beautiful. 

Until she starts puking smoke out, body thrusting forward. Her fingers tangle themselves between the dark strands of her hair. He can’t tell if she’s attempting to ground herself, or hold her hair away from the stream of the dark fog. 

Her hands shoot down to clutch at her sides, leaving her hair to smack her back across her face. 

Sharp cracks interrupt her retching.

Her ribs are breaking from the smoke that has built between her ribs, leaving the bones to jab like thick thorns into her sides. Her throat crackles, and the thinning oxygen leaves her with only enough energy to muster chopped exhales. Her frail gasps leave the nitrogen of almost complete inhales to shrivel on her tongue. Melting on her tastebuds so she gets only a tease of fresh air. 

Her eyes are whiter now, pupils now just a mere speck in the center. All Black Hat can see behind them is the exact expression that wrangled the doctor earlier. 

It doesn’t belong on her face.

She hasn’t felt enough pain to warrant that expression. 

Not yet. 

His dream self is far more merciful, just like a hero. It’s revolting. And insulting. 

Black Hat almost wishes he had intervened before his dream self did, just to show Flug what he is truly capable of. 

Oh well, there’ll be time for that later. And it will truly be a better show than the one Flug is conjuring up. 

Elvira’s sound waves are back, having now warped into hurricane howls that tear the lab apart. They shred the lights in the room to splattering darkness. In between the dark splotches are mute tones and abrupt breaks of crimson. 

Black Hat walks around the pathetic form of his dream self, far bored of the scene in front of him that’s starting to turn into complete chaos.  
Her screaming is back again? Really Doctor? 

He stops, turning to stare at his dream self. 

The face is close to resembling him, but everything is a bit blurrier. And his eye is far brighter. 

He frowns, hands behind his back as he bends forward to study his face more. His molecule is a lot dimmer. But his hat is the exact same, along with his posture. 

At least Flug had the decency to somewhat properly portray himself. 

A splash of red slaps across the dream, reflecting in his pupil. Unlike in real life, the rich crimson somehow makes his eye look soft. How does his mind even know how to conjure such an image? 

Never mind on a proper portrayal then.

“Everything’s okay now,” The moment he speaks, everything falls still. The doctor’s gaping again, eyes boring into him. “-because I’m here. It’s okay darling.” The doctor’s pupil glistens, and his throat bobs as he forces himself to swallow. 

Oh.

He’s not a hero to Flug. He’s not just someone he merely associates as a person that would be able to save him because of his powers and strength. Hell, Flug could save himself! 

The doctor wants him to save him. To be his protector. 

The doctor likes him.

Why else would he had just had his dream self call him a pet name?

He’s never called him darling in real life! He’s never called anyone that. 

Flug’s mouth is closed, lids falling slightly as he lungs into Black Hat. 

The instant Flug is in his chest, Elvira bursts into absolute nothingness. 

“Please, sir, please!” He clutches his back, nails digging into his coat. 

The shock is like a bomb depleting his senses. In the flurry of motions of everything in him dwindling down, it suddenly all makes sense. The doctor’s, always, constant want to impress him. To help him. The nerves that are always there, but never fully getting in the way of the scientist approaching him. His kind words, nicknames. 

And now to see it confirmed. The quivering and oh so miserable Flug clinging to a version of himself he wants, sobbing in his arms and embracing him. 

Black Hat smirks.

The doctor has a crush on him! 

Ha! 

The sight of anyone else doing this to him, even if it isn’t technically him, would be repulsing. All that sentiment! 

But this time, because it’s Flug… well, he finds it strangely all right. Not all the tears and squeezing, no. But the fact that the doctor would confide in someone like him, and the fact that he—even the idea of him— has the ability to calm a man who is typically always anxious.  
He really could leave the dream now. He, technically, has this all under control here. 

Part of him wants to scoff. This, his dream self, isn’t really him. Could he ever really do any of this? Hug the doctor, speak softly, comfort him? Be the way Flug wants him to be? He shoves it down, the heaviness gluing itself to his chest bones. 

It doesn’t matter. It’s just a dream. Besides, it’s still a figment of him. The doctor still likes him! 

He backs up, a light smirk bending his lips… but then, he hears it. 

The whispers of ringing, so quiet at first that he thinks it’s just him hearing it. Not Flug. 

“Please!” 

It’s clear that there is a faint ringing now, and it starts to drown the doctor’s words along with the reoccurring wind that swiftly kicks up. It builds into a tornado this time. So strong this time it rattles the lab table behind them. 

The blasted ringing is back! Why? 

He’s, well the part of him Flug wants, is here now. Protecting him, hugging him! Doing all those ghastly displays of affection that humans continuously crave and love so much! 

Why is he still panicking?? 

And why is he begging? Does he want more affection? 

The dream version of himself seems to have the same thought process, because he grips the doctor closer to him. 

The doctor’s full on trembling again, and clutches back. Sweat is pouring down his forehead, and Black Hat pulls back slightly to study his face. The doctor clutches at his dream self’s forearms. The wind in the room combs its fingers through his wavy hair, spreading it upwards. He rests the palm of his gloved hand against Flug’s face. Flug leans into it, but his chest is still shaking. 

He rests his other hand around his waist lightly. Not holding him closer, but more like holding him steady. 

His face is sheer, and he stares up at Black Hat looking completely lost. Black Hat steps behind his dream self, staring at Flug. His pupils are specks again, and his mouth only open slightly. His fingers are biting into his forearms, drawing wrinkles onto his coat. 

“My sweet doctor, it’s okay.” He lowers his head, cooing directly into the doctor’s ear. 

Black Hat steps back, this all suddenly feeling a bit too personal. But all Flug does is shake his head, breaking away to rest his hands in his head. He spins around, the room following in suit. 

The ringing intensifies. 

The temperature drops, his face becoming frigid. He can’t feel his cheeks. 

Black Hat’s dream self’s face is so soft, too soft, as he steps closer to Flug whose corning himself into a wall. 

Everything in the room is vanishing, and darkening. 

“Please, please-“ It’s all the doctor can manage to splutter out, his throat contracting around that pathetic word. He paces in the corner, stopping to bounce his weight from foot to foot.

He’s staring at the wall where she once was pinned against. A stained shadow of her curved body figure now in its place. 

He thrashes his head back to Black Hat, fingers stiffening by his side and drawing themselves into fists as he gasps, “Please Jefé.” 

His dream self grips the doctor’s shaking hand lightly, holding it in his hand and closing his fingers over it. 

Flug clutches back, hunching back as he creeps closer to Black Hat. He settles under his chin, but can’t stay still for more than two seconds. His weight continues to leap from foot to foot, and he can’t stop staring at the wall. 

Black Hat’s other hand grabs his chin suddenly, forcing the doctor to look at him. 

“Darling.” This time the word is rougher around the edges, sounding more like a demand for attention rather than a light endearment. 

Flug drops through the ground, Black Hat going down with him. 

Everything jolts around them, lighting and furniture popping into place. 

Before either of them hit the floor, the doctor is standing again, this time in front of a wooden ebony desk. 

His bag and goggles are back. 

The atmosphere remains dim. 

Across from him Black Hat has plummeted into his arm chair, landing promptly with his legs crossed, hands folded in front of him. All traces of softness has vanished. His fangs popping out of the side of his lips are the least jagged elements in his appearance. 

Details are strikingly similar to his office…

No, it is his office. 

Down to the shade of his office chair, everything is remarkably in place. 

There’s a lot of blank space, this time. None of his portraits deck the walls, there’s only a lingering frame that just has a slate of grease on the inside. 

The ground’s still fuzzy; it always is.

The ringing has faded to the point where Black Hat isn’t sure if it’s in his mind echoing, or if it’s just considerably quieter. 

Flug is shaking, only slightly less than before. 

This paints the usual scene for him of the doctor coming into his office to ask him a question, or propose an idea to him. No matter what it is it’s always something work related, which never fails to kick the doctor’s nerves into high gear. 

“Please sir.” He chokes out again, hugging himself this time. 

This time the Black Hat in the room mirrors him a lot more closely. 

The detachment of it all, the raw realness, is completely strange to the scene that had just played. 

Dreams are strange. How they can bounce so rapidly between different scenes and moods. Go from being far-fetched, to all too real feeling. How humans slip into the shifts of them so easily, typically completely forgetting what happened before. 

The doctor stares at Black Hat’s bored expression, and bravely inches closer to the desk. Shoulders hunched slightly into himself, he shuffles while periodically glancing down at the white tips of his shoes. 

He clutches the end of the desk when he gets there, something he would never dare to do in real life, and stares down at his knuckles. From a foot or so away Black Hat can even see the sheer alabaster bleeding into them.

His dream self is still unresponsive, not even blinking at the inventor. Like he’s an inconvenience for being there; and he already knows what he’s going to say is going to be stupid. 

He takes a deep breathe, but it doesn’t at all calm him. Just like real life. It’s more of a grounding technique that he uses. Abruptly his head pops up, and he’s staring at Black Hat. Always —impressively— he does so straight into his eye, his spine stiffening. 

“Please let me kill her.” The words strut out. Not even does his breath stutter. 

Ah there’s one of the reason he hired, and likes, his doctor. He’s never afraid to inflict harm on another, regardless of who that person is. 

He clutches the desk harder as the silence piles onto his shoulders, threatening to completely weigh them down. His gaze remains firmly ahead. 

Although his appearance taints the firmness in his tone, Black Hat knows him well enough to not let that deceive him. 

In the context of the dream, it’s a bizarre request. Why would he ask this if she was already dead? If he had really wanted to be the one to kill her, then Black Hat wouldn’t have been there. 

And still, the scene was far too tame even for the doctor. Perhaps he believes she wouldn’t go down that easily. 

Black Hat steps closer to the, his, desk. His eye boring into the doctor’s bag as he slowly walks. 

Flug knows this isn’t entirely real. 

He knew the display between Black Hat and himself wasn’t normal. He only leaned into the touch for a fraction of a second, before peering at him. Not in being lost in his eye, but more as in confusion. 

So, he really does believe that he isn’t capable of being soft? 

Well he’s right! 

He’s a villain! He despises emotion. He isn’t soft! 

His ribs feel heavier. 

“Please sir, let me kill her.” 

Ah, now the office makes sense. 

This is their usual interaction. Boss to employer.

He’s here to make a deal. Something he hasn’t done in years. 

The smirk is back, in biting force. Yet his dream self is still mute to this all. 

How could he be? He just asked to kill someone! Especially after all the shit he went through, and he isn’t afraid to touch her. To stand up for himself. 

The doctor’s head drops, a shivering breath fleeing out of him. His next words are dehydrated of air, fleeting out. His head snaps back up as they punch out of him, eyes wide. “Or please kill her yourself, I would want that more to make sure the job is really done, no one ever survives an encounter with you. But just, please I want her gone sir!” His hand clutches the wood, nails raking across it. 

He leans closer across the table. His eyes skimming across his bosses face, seeking out a single trace of recognition. “She's driving me crazy,” He breathes it out, shoulders wilting. 

For the first time he breaks eye contact to glance off to the side. “-but I know how much she offers for the company. All that money, and her ideas.” He shoves his hands off the counter, resting his head in his hands. 

“But please I'll do anything!” His voice mourns out the sentence, full on begging now. He’s back to staring at Black Hat with gaping eyes. His hands sink back to the edge of the desk, before he uses his palms to shove himself abruptly away from it again.

He takes a small step back, rocking from foot to foot, hands uselessly waving. It hides his trembling fingers somewhat. “I’ll work harder to fill those voids. No more small breaks,” he thrusts his hands out, fingers flattening and palms facing the floor. “-and I’ll brainstorm more in depth. I’ll make more concepts, more ideas. I just can’t take it anymore!” He throws his hands down, gasping. His throat quivering around the air that is burning as it rushes in. Black Hat knows this because he can feel his own throat tingling and tightening. His emotions are tainting his dream. 

The next words skip out of him. He’s sure his lips are pale and quivering. “I can’t take someone knowing me, inside and out, as much as I know myself! All that blackmail material; I can only handle you knowing most of it!” He’s hyperventilating, crouching into himself as his vision grows foggy from the salt water. His surrounding follow suit, blurring in the center. 

Everything starts to flicker, and through black cracks extending across the dream are peeks of the doctor’s dark room. His navy blue wall, the end of his mattress. 

Each flicker reveals a bit more of his room, and then more of the office and blank space. 

The real Black Hat leaps slightly. 

He’s starting to wake up. 

His next inhale breaks off into a sob. The flickering worsens, revealing more of his room than the dream. 

He crouches further into himself, hands clutching at his knees. 

“Please jefecito, pl-“ 

A hand gripping his wrist from across the desk kills the words bubbling out of his throat. 

It’s his self-conscious trying to calm him down. Trying to give him what his deepest mind wants, desires. 

Or maybe it’s what he thinks is best for him. 

Black Hat morphs into his softer self, eyes pleading at the doctor for him to calm down. His gloved thumb strokes along the inside of the doctors wrist. 

But the situation, having Black Hat like this, is so unobtainable to him that it’s raising a flag in his brain that this isn’t real.

The accusations are shooting out of the walls. They’re jumbled, and barely make sense. The real Black Hat would never, this can’t be real. This isn’t real. She has to, I have to kill her. This isn’t real. 

He still grips at the top of Black Hat’s hand, talking choppily. “I can’t sleep, can’t eat, I’m useless! I can’t do anything not with her knowing ‘m mad I can’t-“ He sobs harder, the dream flickering quicker. Snapshots of everything jumping through his vision, torn between reality and his dreams. 

His dream self is standing now, suddenly, but his presence is not doing anything for the doctor. 

Time to banish him then. It’s long overdue. 

Black Hat shuts his eye, reigning his shadows into the segment of the doctors brain that’s stimulating the dream. Manipulating human dreams are far too easy.

The figment of him vanishes into thin air, not a trace of it left behind. No smoke, no darkness. 

Flug sucks in an inhale, turning wildly around. 

His eyes widen behind his goggles. 

And finally, then, can he see the real Black Hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :) 
> 
> I'm hoping Black Hat wasn't too OOC.. or that this wasn't too gory in the beginning. 
> 
> The next draft I already have out for the next chapter so it shouldn't be a long wait. I'm excited for it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter because I want you all to have more to read :) This has to be the quickest I've updated yet, lmao.
> 
> This is the fastest I've wrote, edited, and put out a chapter. I didn't spend as much time on it as I usually do, so I'm feeling that it isn't as strong as my other ones.. I hope it's okay. 
> 
> Thank you for all of the feedback honestly I am loving the comments, you all are so nice!! It's really made me want to write more, and faster. Thank you!

In swift strides, ignoring the speedy broad lines that tear across the dream, he lessens the space between the doctor and himself. Everything in him is thrumming, the back of his legs jumping as each of his steps pound across the floor.

He’s not letting Flug wake up.

Not with this being the result here.

The hell of it being a dream, he knows that he can do this.

The moment he’s in front of him he rips off that ghastly bag. It all happens in one motion, his goggles coming off with it. He loves dream dynamics, suddenly.

The tip of his finger is a match, and in one strike the bag— goggles still attached to it— is swimming in flames. It disintegrates immediately as he thrusts it into the air beside him. Not one measly ember is left behind to drift away with how sudden the bag is devoured.

Flug’s reaction, this time, is the complete opposite of when Elvira removed it earlier.

He’s gaping, lips forming around vowels, but only a late whimper leaves his lips. Dry tear stains are caked below his eyes, building in the creases there. They’ve piled on top of each other, slated heavily on the apples of his frail cheeks.

Black Hat stares directly into his irises that are crawling in veins and scarlet, giving the doctor his undivided attention. “I’ve seen you without that before, plenty of times.” His hand flies out towards where the bag once was in the air, Flug’s pupils struggling to follow the rapid motion. His hand whips back, clutching his chin between his fingers and shaking his head until his hazy pupils are sharpening back up at him.

“And do you know why?” Black Hat growls out.

The doctor’s eyes widen, his brows only furrowing to the point where they only draw soft creases above his nose. That look behind his eyes, that whiteness, is fading. The part of his subconscious that doesn’t know how to follow this, since this isn’t a part of his own thought process, is diminishing further into the back of his brain. Far too subtle for the doctor’s mind to truly make him aware of his body not being in control of the dream.

Perfect.

“C-curiosity?” It hisses out of his clenched jaw after several moments, and Black Hat loosens his grip slightly.

“No.”

Flug whimpers, his brows crawling upwards. No longer are they slanted at the fronts and huddled together. They’re now more stressed towards the edges. His pupils have shrunk, the redness panning off to the corners of his irises.

Black Hat tightens his grip, watching his claws poke into his jaw. His skin digs underneath his nails, the top of his claws hitting bone. “It’s because you’re not allowed to keep secrets from me.” His jaw is clenched, and abruptly he lets go of Flug completely.

The doctor stumbles backwards, barely managing to regain his footing as his hands fly out beside him.

“I-I’m so-sorry boss, I j-just,” He stutters, frowning up at Black Hat. He tries to, anyway. His bottom lip hangs heavily, and won’t stop shaking. “-I didn’t w-want you to see me as weaker than you already do.” He sobers slightly, pupils covering themselves in wax again. “Than I already am.” His voice scrapes along his throat, causing his fraying words to hardly penetrate the air. “I didn’t want you to completely hate me.” He crosses his arm, staring off to the side.

His bottom lip wiggles harder.

Damn it.

He’s crying again, pressing his lips together to hold back his sobs. It barely works, he can hear and physically see his hiccuping.

“Now you know everything. God I-I’m crying, I really am weak! You and her are right!” He sobs outwardly, not bothering to attempt keeping it in anymore. He clutches himself again, fingers chomping into his elbows.

And the noises leaving him! All the whimpering, it’s horrible the way that each tiny whine is raking down the bones in Black Hat’s own chest. Adding to this ache that just won’t go away, and with each cry is only somehow intensifying! And the squinting of his eyes, how he’s huddling into himself and looks so small…

If he were mortal, he would have assumed he was going to die. The ache in his chest is now more akin to bricks that keep piling, with each layer of cement between them colder and thicker and heavier!

Is this empathy? Again?

It really does make someone want to vomit! He wants everything, all his organs, out of him. Anything to make this blasted emotion go away!

He can’t stop watching him! His face is reddening, but blinding chiffon shoves against his skin in the space between his brows and above his clenched knuckles.

He wanted to see more color in him; but now he misses the mute tones of blues and grays powdered across and blended into his skin. At least that suffering was silent. Easier to look past and ignore. So much easier to cringe at, only having to deal with sight and nothing else. None of this horrid noise!

And his brain, he can’t stop thinking about it!

How she had the ability to affect his poor scientist this way, it is absolutely insane. It’s maddening! All that fire is hissing and spitting against his skin again.

They’re sparks that suddenly are hurting him, prickling and scorching. It’s never felt like this before.

He can’t focus on the pain, or exactly pinpoint it.

All he can hear is his head.

It’s clear, how long she’s been traumatizing him. Manipulating him into believing he’s pathetic. Her darts — those stupid envelopes— steadily being pelted into an obtuse target, that forced him to believe that Black Hat sees absolutely no potential in him. That all _this_ would make him think his doctor was weak! How he felt like he couldn’t stand up for himself. How he felt so powerless! How he kept going through all this and keeping silent just to, what, protect the company?

No, not just that..

Because he didn’t want to take the risk of Black Hat laughing at him and seeing him as a lesser person? Or of him firing him?

Fuck.

Why didn’t he notice before? Why couldn’t he protect him from all this?

Why didn’t he complement the doctor at least once? Let him know that no force from another person or thing could manipulate the way he saw his doctor.

He chose him out of the millions of people on Earth! Even after messing up, he gives him so many opportunities! Why didn’t that speak enough to the doctor that he was, at least, a little special to Black Hat?

Flug sobs louder, wailing, and the cracks in the lines are deeper than before.

He’s scooted farther from Black Hat, his calves hitting the edges of the darkness of the dream. He’s trembling, shoulders stiff somehow as he is huddled into himself, clutching his abdomen. Eyes now on Black Hat, they’re wide with pinprick pupils. His tears no longer clouding his vision, instead only the force and noise of sobs howling in whispers out of him.

Black Hat glances down at himself, and finally feels his body again. Taunt and straining, with clenched fists at his side. His fingers numb and palms shredded with how hard his hand was folded and clenched. Pure oil seeps off him, sketching around him. It makes the air murky, and sear his eye.

He forces his body to exhale, the darkness slinking back into place around him. One by one his fingers fall, easing his shoulders back down.

He exhales again, this time not as roughly.

The dream needs to change. There needs to be another setting, a completely new one.

Something that isn’t stained of their profession. Something more personal.

Shutting his eye he scans the doctor’s mind for a scene that puts him to sleep.

Somewhere that creates soft waves that rock his heart, and makes him smile. No. Beam so hard his cheeks hurt. He needs the perfect serene environment. 

He feels it in a tucked away vertebra of his brain. The moment his mind skims it his own bones are sagging, and oozes of warmth smooth across his skin.

He plucks it away, resting it over the canvas of the doctor’s dream.

His hand is around the doctor’s wrist the moment he reopens his eye.

The doctor is still crying. Damn.

Black Hat skims the scene momentarily, and already finds himself with heavy lips that push his jaw upward.

At a first glance, it’s nothing remarkable. It’s dark, seemingly the opposite of something warm and relaxing.

It’s another room.

There’s grand double doors, large and a sleek ebony. 

Covered on the wallpaper is his signature top-hats, yet the background is a dark navy blue instead of purple. And tiny planes litter the top of the bedside desk.

There’s a bed that’s king sized, with charcoal sheets. Around the top of the bed’s frame is crimson satin curtains, tucked away on the sides of the bed.

One of the pillows is black and white, with a detailed model plane on it. Another one perched beside that one is just a signature top hat. The third one, lying in front of the two, is ivory. A fuzzy scarlet blanket lingers on the bottom of the bed, folded neatly.

Along the walls are portraits, similar to the ones in his office. Pictures of him, and some of him and Flug. A tinier frame that catches his eye because it’s a popping tone of blue. The sight of what’s in his frame immediately drags his lips across his face. His fangs pop out as he growls, physically bending away from the photo. It’s that dumb bear, some depiction of when it was a baby.

If this was really their room, he wouldn’t allow it. Especially not with being hung beside such an evil and perfect portrait of himself, posing in front of a screeching Van Gogh while holding up his bloody left ear.

Wait _._

 _Their_ room.

This is his comfort place? A complete figment of his imagination he created. Out of everything that he’s seen in life? Out of his billions of memories?

This small and dark room, over being in some antique airplane?

A place, with that deep of a relationship, that does not exist.

Flug pulls his wrist out of his hand, bringing it to his mouth to force his sobs back inside his throat.

He gapes at him, hand still out, gripping nothing.

Why?

The doctor turns his head away from him, cheeks resembling spilled wine, and he squeezes his eyes shut. His shoulders are leaping, chest pounding with hidden hiccups.

How, after all this time, is he still crying??

Yanking Flug’s opposite hand into his, he stomps towards the bed. His scientist stumbles over his own feet, eyes popping open and his other hand flailing. The room is static, lines breaking across the scene and dimming everything again.

He’s waking up more. And he’s not calming down. Working with Flug’s brain, he’s done everything he can.

There’s tricks to a human mind to force them to stay asleep longer. Something healthier, and less painful, than to the tactics he prefers to use.

One of the safest options is to copy the motions of what they’re doing in real life, which is— nine times out of ten— lying down.

He eases on his clutch, rubbing his thumb over the doctor’s wrist. The raised veins there are thin, and a dull navy. Black Hat stands there for a moment, unsure of how to best go about getting the doctor on the bed. He pauses near the bed’s sable wooden frame, staring down at his mop of hair. Flug’s head is facing Black Hat’s chest, his own still shaking. Matching the tempo of his pursed lips, and quivering nostrils that force him to continue to breathe.

He would’ve preferred to drop them through a shadow, and directly onto the mattress. But that would have woken him up for sure.

Backing them up onto the edge of the bed, he pushes the doctor’s chest lightly while his other hand drifts to the doctor’s back. He rests his arm below his butt, scooping him up and resting him onto the mattress.

He leaves the doctor sitting up, gaping slightly with, thankfully, silent tears treading down his raw skin.

With large steps he steps around the bed, lying down on the other side of the mattress.

Instantly he fights down a loose smile. 

It’s insanely comfortable. He never has to lie down, and never has he wanted to. But he could definitely understand the deep desire human’s have to want to now. The right amount of softness to hardness ratio of the bed, the doctor chose well.

Flug’s hand lies behind him, his upper body turned to stare at Black Hat. He cocks his head at him a tad, fingers sprawling out against the sheets.

He rolls his eyes, groaning. He had hoped Flug would get the hint, but of course he didn't.

How do people do this? He throws his head back into the pillows, the annoyingly perfect pillows that are so fluffy, growling and glaring at the static above him. There’s no ceiling. Parts of his subconscious are back, evident by the tiny potted cactus floating in the corner.

Patting the mattress beside him roughly he huffs, the sound buried beneath the slamming of his palm against the covers. He continues to glower at the ceiling. “Come on-“ Flug’s title dies in his throat, erupting into crackling air.

Should he?

“-my, sweet doctor.” The endearment curls around his tongue, and has a strange roasted aftertaste that stiffens his tongue. It robs him of his saliva, and makes his skin swelter.

For the first time the hiccuping stops, and his lips settle. He even swears, just for a moment, he sees them curl up softly at the edges.

There’s cherry still in his face, but he swears it’s brightened around the edges of his ears. 

Flug kicks off his shoes, and they go soaring off the bed. Vanishing into thin air, as he scurries under the covers and turns towards Black Hat.

He inches closer to him, but halts a respectful distance away. The doctor watches him with his spiked lashes and blotchy face. Fresh tears crack the stains of the old ones, and continue to leak down. His irises still look like a bird stuck its talons in them, and mistook his veins as worms. Tugging them loose but dropping them after realizing what they were, and popping a blood vessel or two in the process.

Yet being this close to him now, and with Flug not whining anymore, his face isn’t so bad looking again. Maybe because there’s proof of life on it this time. Ugly life, but life nonetheless.

He scowls, turning his attention to his hand on the sheets. That was a disgusting thought. Then again, they're a regular occurrence when it comes to being around the doctor. That and those _feelings_. 

Turning his attention back to Flug, he realizes he isn’t fully laying on his pillow. Gazing down at his hand, his head turns from his to Black Hat’s hand. His body is stiffening by the second, body leaning closer towards him but then cowering into himself again.  
  
Something that he hasn’t had happen to him since he was incredibly young and inexperienced with practically everything in life occurs again. Like his first mistake, or first question he had to ask someone. 

It’s that strain. The one that nudges at the back of his neck, and drags heat across his cheeks. Bringing with it the invasion of scrambled and fleeting questions that won’t stop popping into his head. Each incomplete start to an inquiry driving him dizzy!

Only one question is clear, and trapped on repeat. 

What is he supposed to do now?

The doctor’s sobs are back to clawing at his chest, and he's resorted to gnawing on his lower chapped lip. The tears are still inching out, and with each slight sway of his body away from Black Hat his nostrils flare. Thankfully the lines that are breaking the dream apart have lessened, but they still scratch at the edges of the room. 

His fingers answer his question by itching, curling into his palms.

Humans like physical affection, especially for comfort, and Flug craves it from him.

Instead of the spark of a match he expects to feel chiseling at his organs at the thought of having to commit physical affection, the match instead ignites. And it warms, looming in his chest.

It doesn’t matter if a part of him wants it to. He still doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Before he can change his mind his hand shoots out, sweeping the doctor into his chest. The covers give no resistance, and he is underneath them now too. When did that happen?

Flug chokes on his exhale, and more lines shatter the dream. Clearly he was not expecting the abrupt action. A motion so fast it literally tore at the dream, since it occurred in a fraction of a second. Much too quick for the pace of a dream.

Black Hat grimaces at himself, glad that the doctor is too rigid and staring at his chest to see the expression.

He should have known better than to do that. He’s lucky he didn’t just ruin everything. It’s a wonder Flug is still awake.

The lines have flickered back to creeping in the edges of the dreams vision.

Moving his hand that’s gripping the doctor’s waist, he lets it linger on the center of his back to rub there. The doctor’s lab coat feels like a satin robe now, and is a lot thinner than usual.

His own arm is already aching, the skin so tight around his neck that it’s biting him now. The palm resting against the scientist’s back is so hot that he has the delusional thought that it will become glued there. He’s turning delusional.

The silence is too loud. Even from releasing all the breath in his system, he still can’t manage to become lax. And hell, he doesn’t even have to have all this air in him! But it just keeps sweeping in.

The doctor is burning a hole in his chest, and is beginning to shake again. His arms are curled between them, clutched in fists. Black Hat can’t see his face from the angle when he attempts to peer down, only that silly mop of blonde waves again.

He’s too taunt, he has to be noticing.

Momentarily he rests his fingers in his hair, raking his nails through the stands. 

Shit!

Bad idea.

Within the third sweep his nails are tangled between the curls, and he lurches his hand out. Strands of hair rip out, chasing his hand. They hug underneath his nails. The doctor sharply hisses.

At least it isn’t a wail this time.

He picks them out, flinging them into the air quickly before Flug can see the evidence.

The doctor doesn’t even look up, only continuing to sniffle.

He rests his palm on his head instead, flattening the frayed section down— thankfully this is a dream— and moves his hand back down to his back.

Okay.

This is fine… he supposes.

He continues to rub, his other hand reaching around to push down softly on the doctor’s tense shoulders. They don’t budge. The tears are soaking through his shirt, and he tries to hold back cringes at the thought of his mucus smearing across his shirt. It’s a dream, sure, but it feels so real. Too real.

No.

This is the complete opposite of fine.

The doctor wails into his chest, and the blazing wetness soaking through his chest intensifies. His fingers now digging into his shirt, stretching the material.

This is absolutely tedious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Hat's going to have to gear up for this next chapter >:) 
> 
> This next chapter will be the last of the dream sequence! (Originally was supposed to have the dream all in one chapter, but because of how long it was all taking I split it up.) 
> 
> I hope you guys liked and enjoyed this chapter! I'm nervous about it honestly. 
> 
> My tumblr: paperhattt


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